The CSIs Who Went Up a Hill
by everybetty
Summary: Anatomy of a Lye redux. a gift!fic. AU to the original eppie where Nick takes Warrick up the mountain. Trouble ensues. Yeah, you know what kind. Now Complete.
1. The Best Laid Plans

-1

Warrick Brown walked into the Lab to find Nick Stokes hunkered down over a table covered in labeled jars of water and plastic baggies of nondescript rocks. "The one day I'm in court and you pull a drowning in the desert?"

Nick nodded his head with a smile. "How'd court go?"

"It didn't. It was a bust. Judge recessed. Said something about conflicting dockets but my money's on him catching eighteen rounds over at Desert Pines."

"So that mean you're free to lend a buddy a hand?"

"You being that _buddy_ I would guess?" he asked dryly. "What you got there? Water and rocks? Looks like too much fun for me, bro."

Nick stood from the table, rubbing out a kink in his lower back with an annoyed expression on his face.

"A'ight, a'ight," Warrick conceded. "Don't pout. Besides, you're making progress. The blood from the poolside matches the female victim, Stacy Warner."

"Yeah, the problem is the small amount of blood found in her own home isn't enough to prove anything, you know? People bump their heads and scrape their knees all the time."

Warrick nodded in agreement. Five years on the job, they all knew the amount of tiny blood traces found in the average home.

Nick continued. "That muscle-head boyfriend --he's a little shady. He's hiding something. I can feel it."

"Are you able to prove that he drowned her in their swimming pool?"

"Four samples: One from their swimming pool, one from their bathroom, one from Lake Mead and one from Clark County Reservoir but none are consistent with the water I recovered from her stomach."

"A'ight. So lessee what else you got to work with. What else did you collect from the scene?"

"Some rocks from under her body and a goose feather." He picked up the nearest baggie and handed it to his partner.

"This looks like basalt rock. Didn't it say somewhere in here that you found her at 1,500 feet?"

Nick looked sideways at Warrick's automatic sight analysis of a rock he hadn't had anywhere near trace yet. "Middle of the freakin' desert. Yeah. How'd you know what that was?"

"I went on this field trip up at Table Mountain in my senior year -- "Rocks for Jocks." Don't ask me why I remember any of this. But I _do_ remember that you can only find this rock at high altitudes- like 4,000 feet."

"Hey, that helps. I think I'm going to head out there. You want to roll with me?"

"Why the hell not? Judge is gonna hit a little white ball around, may as well get in some hiking. Let's go grab some gear."

* * *

Diablo Canyon was an hour's drive outside the city. The two friends chatted over the muted sounds of an REM CD, one of the few they could agree upon. Warrick drove since it was only fair, being dragged along on Nick's rock hunt, he convinced the Texan with a sly smile.

REM ended and was replaced with some jazz CD Warrick wanted, and Nick only put up a desultory fight since he was in a good mood and contented himself with staring out at the landscape that rushed by his window. The flat desert surrounding them had been supplanted by increasingly jagged terrain, pocked with the sporadic Joshua tree and scrubby brush. The occasional saguaro still stuck out like men held up at gunpoint.

As they drew closer, Nick consulted the map he and Lockwood had used the night before. The desert at night is an endless stretch of lighter grey against the black night sky so rather than rely on memory he kept a close eye on the map. He gestured to a dirt road that pulled off the main highway and Warrick eased the Denali off road, the ride immediately becoming rougher and bumpier.

The road ended about twenty minutes in, no warning, no parking area. Just ended. The parched earth held no sign of anyone having recently parked there, but Stacy Warner could have been there an hour ago for all they'd be able to tell. The winds scoured the land flat of any sign of tire or footprint minutes after leaving them.

The two men got out of the truck, wiping hands across brows that beaded instantly with sweat. Skin left cool and dry by the air conditioning reacted immediately to the punishing sun. Sunglasses went on with automatic precision. Nick pulled on a navy forensics ball cap.

"You sure this is the place?" Warrick asked, sides of his eyes crinkling to show him still squinting even with the shades on.

Nick nodded slowly. "Yeah. Think I recognize that bush," he said with a laugh.

Warrick rolled his eyes behind darkened lenses. "Maybe we oughta leave breadcrumbs. This best not turn into a Hansel and Gretel thing. I got money on the game tonight, and I don't wanna miss it."

He caught the look Nick threw him, arms akimbo, hands perched sternly on his hips.

"What?" he asked with faked innocence. "It's the Bucs playing. Johnson has been having a hot season."

"You put money on Tampa Bay? Man, you do have a problem."

Warrick responded by throwing a bottle of water at his partner, Nick catching it with only the slightest of bobbles one-handed. The Texan uncapped it and guzzled through lips still curved in a broad grin.

"Hey, hey. No 7-11s out here, bro. Only brought a six-pack of the water. Take her easy."

Nick nodded but kept on gulping, wiping the remains of the last few drops from his mouth with the back of his hand. "Guess I'll hafta make due with only two bottles then."

They each packed up rucksacks, hauled them up over their shoulders, Warrick hitting the lock up button on the remote, laughing at the thought of someone stealing the truck out here in No Man's Land.

"So, lead on, bro. You know where the girl's body was found?"

"Yeah. Thinks it's just over that rise a bit. At the bottom of that ridge there. See the outcropping that looks like a face?"

Warrick raised an eyebrow in doubt, then smiled as he caught sight of it. "Yeah, it does. Dude's got a hell of a double chin though."

Ten minutes later they came upon the area where Stacy Warner's body had been found. Nick verified the location when he found grooves in the ground where he had placed some orange markers around her corpse.

"This is it. Found her here. Nothing but desert and rocky cliffs. If your Rocks for Jocks knowledge survived in some of the brain cells you didn't kill off in college, the basalt woulda come from up there," he said, raising a hand to point off into the distance, other hand held over his sunglasses to block the glare that breached even the expensive shades. "You ready to do this?"

"Quit jawin' and start climbin'. I'll be right behind you."

* * *

Nick was halfway into his second precious bottle of water, the grey jersey of his t-shirt soaked through and dark with sweat. The sunglasses had been packed away as they kept slipping down his nose and he didn't want to risk a hundred dollar pair of shades going crashing down 3,000 feet of jagged rock.

Both men were covered in yellowish dust and dirt, caked onto their skin where rivulets of perspiration ran down their faces, pits, and back.

Warrick finally relented and opened his first water, trying at first to conserve it by taking meager sips, then, realizing sips weren't cutting it, he began pulling it down in huge gulps. The whole bottle gone he looked at what he'd done regretfully, his thirst nowhere near slaked. He looked up to see Nick holding something out in his hand.

At the curious look Nick gestured again, urging his partner to take it. "LifeSavers. Suck 'em. They keep you thinkin' you're not thirsty for a while."

Warrick poked an eyebrow up in doubt, then grabbed the roll from Nick's hand. Top one was a red one. He unwrapped a bit of paper and tossed the candy into his mouth. Seconds later it was like he was sucking on a cherry Popsicle.

"Got dry out on the ranch," Nick offered as explanation. "Always kept a few rolls in my pocket. Keep that one."

"Lived my whole life in the damn desert," Warrick grumbled. "Always had free drinks in the casinos, though," he amended with a grin. "A'ight. Let's get moving. We got another 1,000 feet ahead of us."

"Hey, I was just letting you rest, bro. Looked like you needed it," Nick jabbed playfully.

"Yeah, yeah, shut up and start climbing."

The sky had darkened and the wind picked up, batting and pulling like phantom fingers at their skin and clothing. Nick had already almost lost his balance on the steep mountainside when he had reflexively grabbed at his cap when it threatened to blow off.

The heat had lessened somewhat but the terrain had become steeper and both men huffed and puffed, stopping frequently to wipe sweat from their eyes. After the first time Warrick wiped dusty grit into them he pulled the tails of his shirt free and began to use those. Nick faired slightly better with his wise decision to wear the cap.

The Texan stopped to swipe at his brow, pulling the cap back over his short damp hair. He was beginning to think the trip might have been a bust. No sign of anyone having passed along the trail they were on, trail being a kind word as it was barely a slightly more worn area traversing the rocks.

With a final tug on the brim he cast a look further up ahead. It had taken them as much time to get the first 3,000 feet as it had the last 500. At least the same amount more loomed above them, the way becoming damn near a straight vertical climb.

He shook his head in mild disgust, then caught something out of the corner of his eye.

About forty feet out, well off the path. Something dark blue stuck out against the dusty tan rock.

He tapped his partner on the shoulder, Warrick dropping the tail of his shirt from his most recent attempt at clearing his vision and stared along Nick's arm direction. With a small nod he confirmed that he saw it as well, and stepped back a bit to let Nick get a better foothold on a rocky outcropping.

Nick took a hesitant step forward, eyeing up the lay of the land, that didn't lay so much as lurch and buckle, between them and the spot of dark blue. He stopped, reaching behind him to open his backpack. Warrick watched curiously as Nick pulled out two pieces of black cloth, their purpose becoming clear as he watched Nick pull on short leather and fabric fingerless gloves.

"Well, aren't you the resourceful one, Nicky," he commented with a chuckle.

"Always prepared, my friend. Always prepared. Boy Scout, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah. So, you really think you can get out there to that?"

"Only one way to find out, Rick. Here, hold this," he said as he finished dropping the backpack off his shoulders and handed it over. "Don't wanna mess up my balance," he explained. Warrick took it and slung it over one of his arms as he continued to eye the cliff face doubtfully.

Grasping a chunk of protruding rock, Nick sidled a foot out to the left, gaining purchase with the tread of his boot, pumping a few times on his foothold to make sure it could take his weight. With an abrupt intake of air he took the step, clinging to the side of the cliff, right foot still hanging in midair until he found a place to dig his toe in. The next forty feet continued in the same manner, body hugging the canyon face, feet and hands skillfully finding cracks and crevices to rest in.

Still three feet from the dark blue object which he now saw was a down jacket. Wispy feathers leaked from a tear in the fabric to be whisked away on the steadily quickening winds.

No further footholds to be found, Nick grabbed hold with his gloved right hand, digging fingers into the rocky cliff, hissing as a fingernail caught and bent back. He then leaned to his left, stretching his arm towards the trapped jacket. Fingertips brushed on soft cotton fabric and he steeled himself to reach further, ignoring the throbbing in his right hand to burrow his fingers in deeper.

Muscles and tendons stretched to their limit he eased his foot further left, toe of his boot now extended in midair over the canyon floor some 4,000 feet below him. He gained tentative purchase on the jacket, flinching as he pulled it free from where it had caught on a spike of rock and it started to fall. He pulled it in quickly, collapsing his body to embrace the cliff face like a long lost lover. Panting and gasping with adrenaline, sweat now filling his vision so his surroundings were nothing but a beige blur, he tucked the coat in front of his legs between him and the canyon wall.

"You all right out there, bud?" he heard Warrick shout. It was meant to sound like a taunt, but Nick recognized the edge of concern.

_Yeah_, he breathed to himself and the rock wall, then lifted his head to turn it back towards his partner. "Yeah!" he shouted louder. "Yeah. 'S all good!"

Now he was faced with the difficulty of returning back to the trail while carrying a heavy down jacket. Grimacing with the thought of what he had to do, and recognizing he might be messing with any trace, he tucked his arms into the coat and put it on. He immediately became hotter as the insulated fabric trapped in his body heat and blocked the wind from cooling his perspiration-covered skin.

Picking his way gingerly back the way he came was actually a bit easier since he was right handed and he felt a bit more in control. Of course, the bent nail was on his right hand and he found himself wincing each time he had to shove his hand back into another pocket of rock.

By the time his foot landed back on the path where Warrick waited he was drenched in sweat, the dark splotches at the neck and pits of his tee joined to turn the whole jersey into a sodden mess. He had barely gotten the left foot on solid ground before he was ripping the down coat off and flinging it disgustedly on the ground.

Warrick stood there, leaned back, arms folded across his chest, his head shaking back and forth closely. "Man, Nick. I had no idea you could climb like that. You do this a lot?"

Nick laughed as he pulled the t-shirt off, wiping down his heaving chest, then wringing the garment and shaking it out into the wind. "Nope. First time. Saw it done on TV. Bought the gloves on a whim one night at Bass Pro thinking I might actually try it someday."

"Are you shittin' me? Man, that was some crazy shit. You looked like Spiderman out there."

"I was thinking Tom Cruise in _Mission Impossible II_. You know, at the beginning …the helicopter comes down and picks him up? Cool frickin' opening scene."

"Man, that movie sucked. Every other scene someone's pulling a mask off. Could never tell who was who. Then again, I spent all my time staring at Thandie Newton. That girl is Hot! Tsss!" he said, shaking his hand as if burned. "Hey, you ruined your manicure."

Nick looked down at his hand, blood coating the last three fingers, still oozing from the ruined middle fingernail. "Yeah. Hurts like a mother, too. Hand me my bag, would ya?"

His partner hefted the backpack over and Nick commenced rummaging through it, pulling out a beat up old metal box with a red cross on it.

Rick laughed. "Man, I know you said you were a Boy Scout, but damn! What else you got in that bag, oh Prepared One?"

"Laugh all you want, Rick, but nothin' wrong with a little forethought. And nothin' sucks worse than not having a Band-Aid around when you want one," he said as he unwrapped a fabric strip and wound it around the bloodied finger.

Warrick reached over and grabbed the metal box from where Nick had stashed it under his armpit. "What else you got in here?" he mumbled as he started pawing through the box. "_X Men _Band-Aids, Nicky? You like Cyclops or Wolverine better?" he snarked.

Nick grabbed at the box, his hand whiffling air as his friend dodged and weaved. "They were on the clearance shelf at Target. Band-Aid's a Band-Aid," he grumbled. "Just give the box back."

'Nope. Lessee what else ol' Ranger Nick has in his box. What are these?"

"Waterproof matches," came the reply, muffled by cotton as Nick pulled his baseball tee back on.

"They look ancient."

"I made 'em in Scouts when I was a kid. Dipped the match tips in wax. Never had a reason to use 'em, just keep 'em around. Now gimme back the box, Rick."

Warrick continued as if he never heard him. "We got water treatment pills, in case we come on tainted water…in the desert. What's this?" he asked, holding aloft a plastic yellow capsule about three inches long.

Nick mumbled something under his breath, his face already red from his exertions turning duskier.

"What's that, Nicky?"

"It's a snake bite kit. Suction cups, scalpel, antiseptic pad. Hope a buzz worm bites you in the ass so I can hear you pleading with me to use it."

"Picture that. I'd rather die than have you suckin' poison outa my ass." Fun over he packed the stuff back into the box and handed it over, Nick snatching it away and shoving it peevishly back into his bag.

"Yeah, well what did you bring, Warrick? Deck of cards and some Chapstick? Your little black book in case you catch some digits out here?"

"Whoa, bro. Aren't we being just a wee bit testy? What, is it your time of the month?"

"I just don't like it when people fuck with my stuff. Let's just drop it, okay? Wind's pickin' up and I don't like the way the sky is darkening."

Warrick gave him a sidelong look, lips pushed out like he was going to say something, then dropped it and hefted his backpack into better position on his shoulders.

"Okay, Ranger Nick. You got the Scouting mojo. I'll trust your meteorological instincts. Don't think there's anything else much for us to find up here."

Nick nodded, his previous outburst thankfully ignored. "Hey, before we go, hand me the coat would ya? I risked life and limb for the damn thing, might as well see if it was worth it."

"Yeah, you think that was Stacy Warner's?" Warrick asked, his mouth screwed up in doubt. "You said she was wearing light layers of clothing, right?"

"Yeah, several layers, tempered cotton. This is a men's extra large. This is too big for her. Goose down like I found on her body. What's this?" he mused as he pulled a folded piece of paper from the pocket. He unfolded it at the edges, revealing a map of Diablo Canyon and the surrounding Highlands. The email address at the top showed it had been requested by the their vic's fiancé, Matt Hudson.

"Ah. Property of Mr. Muscles."

"You wanna run it? You have more of the pieces than I do."

"Well, maybe he left a day later than he said for his little marathon, you know? Followed her out here, started arguing with her, no neighbors around to call the cops. She manages to fight her way free, finds higher ground, he follows her, takes her down?"

"So then what? He drowns her with canteen water? Desert, remember, Nick? You gonna try and run _that _by the D.A?"

"You should try describing a scuba diver up in a tree, man. This is nothing. No, the evidence tells a story. I'll just be hanged if I can figure out what the hell that story is right now."

"Yeah, well, while you were working on your scuba diver, Sara, Grissom, and I had a guy who blew ten quarts of blood outa his own nose onto the walls of his apartment. What the hell kinda story does that tell you? So, back on this case… why would a cagey guy like our suspect leave his jacket up here?"

"You know the drill, Rick. Everybody thinks they have a plan 'til things start to go wrong."

An ominous rumble rolled through the darkening sky above them, reverberations echoing off the canyon wall as the first raindrops began pelting them.


	2. Sledding

"Shit! You had to be right, didn't ya, Nick? I don't suppose you coulda figured out the weather would turn on us before we came out here and climbed 4000 feet?" 

"Had no idea, man, I'm sorry. I eyeballed the weather forecast before we left and they said it'd be hot n' sunny, like just about any other day in Vegas."

"Well, hot n' sunny just turned to hot n' rainy. And with this wind pickin' up I think hot's not stickin' around much longer."

Nick took the coat with the map and rolled it into as small a ball as he could and shoved it into his bag, then jammed the straps over his shoulders and started off down the trail, Warrick right behind him.

As Warrick predicted, once the clouds blocked the sun and the wind continued picking up the air quickly cooled around them. Air whipping past clothing still damp from the day's exertions had both men chilled, quickening their efforts.

The rain that rolled in with the winds was icy cold, drops stinging as it struck their flesh. The rumbling they had heard earlier was louder and arriving much faster with each flash off in the distance.

Muttering curses and stumbling as they made their way down the steep trail, they found the way becoming slicker as rain mixed with the loose dusty dirt under their feet. More often than not they found themselves planting hands on the ground and half sliding on their asses in some sections, coating their clothing in cold mud.

"You were worried about us not havin' enough water, bro?" Nick yelled to his partner over the steadily increasing pounding of rain.

Warrick grunted as his rear hit the ground for the tenth time in as many minutes.

Raindrops merged to form a shower, then a solid sheet of rain and their path, formerly slick, was past slippery and had moved on to deadly. Not even bothering now to try to gain their footing each man had resigned himself to tobogganing on his ass, stopping themselves when they could with booted feet on outcroppings of rock. Hands grasped furiously for things to grasp, occasionally being rewarded with a scrubby bush or clump of sharp bladed grass.

Nick's hands were a bit better protected, still wearing the short fingerless gloves, but his fingers were now sliced and scraped in too many places to count. Warrick had a deep gouge out of the palm of his left hand from where a thorny bush had caught it as he was whisked past.

Another flash, much closer now, the crack of thunder following right on its heels. The next flash struck the cliff side not 1000 feet from them and the CSIs felt the hair on their bodies rise as the tingle of static electricity reached them. The smell of ozone mixed with the wet loamy smell of the mud they were drenched in.

"Fuck! That was close, Rick!"

"Too close, bro. Just keep movin'!"

Nick grunted as his now sore rump coasted over a hard rocky point in the path. He had lost his cap several hundred feet back and rain soaked his hair, cascading in a waterfall down his forehead into his eyes. Vision obscured by water, he raised a mud-covered hand in an attempt to wipe them clear. Gritty dirt scratched on his corneas and he squeezed his eyes shut, hot tears flowing to join the icy rainwater.

Another flash that lit up the whole sky, the deafening explosion of thunder almost instantaneous and the rain, as heavy as it was actually became heavier. It was as if the heavens were a bathtub and the whole thing had been upended on the two men.

Water came rushing down in mini-Niagaras over the rocks surrounding them and the muddy path was turned into a rushing stream.

Chunks of rock began to tumble down on either side of them and Warrick yelled as a fist-sized stone caught the side of his face leaving a dark red slash in its wake.

Nick risked a glance backwards to see what had elicited the shout and turned back too late to realize that the trail had taken a ninety-degree turn. His velocity too great to stop he flailed for purchase, hands digging fruitlessly in the river of mud beneath him. The path disappeared from underneath him and he shot off to sail through the air, his heart in his throat as he braced for the eventual impact.

* * *

When he was a kid Nick remembered visiting relatives in Michigan. The kids were all out for Christmas break and the Stokes Army filed into their '71 Ford Econoline Van, Cisco driving like a man possessed, speaking only long enough to threaten to pull the van over when the inevitable result of shoving seven kids into a cramped space for a seventeen hour trip would irritate him. Mom tried, turning frequently to keep an eye on the two bench seats crammed with squirming, fighting, squabbling kids of various ages. As the youngest, Nick sat stuffed between his parents, the heat from the vent baking his skin crispy. His dad was still smoking back then and wouldn't open the window for fear of ruining their "aerodynamics" and with gas as expensive as it was in the late seventies, he wasn't wasting a drop. Choking on cigarette smoke and his mom's Charlie, the dry heat wicking away all moisture from his eyes and mouth, and eight year old little Nicky couldn't have been happier. Because he had heard they had snow in Michigan. Real snow, not the three flakes they got every few years that never stuck. Real honest to goodness, hafta wear boots, making snowmen and snow angels and snow forts and snowballs, SNOW. Like he saw in Rudolph and Frosty and A Charlie brown Christmas.

At first, as they passed the Michigan state line he saw the beginnings of snow cover. Rather disappointing it was. Grey, sloppy, thin and mealy. It made a neat sound as it hit the undercarriage of the van, but the depth and quality left a lot to be desired. He turned to his mom with a pained look and she smiled at him. Patted his knee and told him not to worry, Aunt Theresa had said there was plenty of snow where they were headed.

He nodded and went back to staring out the windshield. The heat and rocking of the van finally caught up with him and he felt his eyes closing, his head slipping sideways to rest on his mom's shoulder.

He woke up when he heard the heavy metal doors on the sides of the van creak open on their rusty hinges and the sounds of his brother and sisters shouting and squealing. Sitting straighter, small fists rubbing at his bleary eyes he looked up at his mom, then saw past her through the dirt and salt grimed windows. Snow. A solid blanket of thick shiny white snow.

His mom planted a kiss on the top of his rumpled dark hair and murmured, "I told you, Nicky."

He clambered off the high bench seat, his legs pins and needles and almost crumpling under him, their last use six hours before when the old man had reluctantly pulled into a rest area so everyone could pee.

He took a few staggered steps, slowly realizing that his feet were cold. He bent down and scooped a handful of fresh snow off the ground, hesitantly raising it to his mouth. His tongue dipped out and touched the surface, and he decided there and then that snow was the best thing he'd ever tasted.

He made it through the gauntlet of hugs and kisses and a particularly egregious cheek pinching followed by a light supper and all the kids were bundled off into the great room to lay their sleeping bags down for the night.

Nick lay between his brother and his closest in age sister and the three of them whispered and giggled about the sledding they were supposed to do the next day for almost an hour before their father's form darkened the doorway and threatened them all with bodily harm if they didn't settle down. While none of the Stokes younguns had ever actually been hit, the threat was always enough and they squirmed down into their sleeping bags, Nick falling asleep dreaming of flying through the air on a shiny red saucer.

The next day, bellies filled with breakfast, stuffed into their now grown cousins' old snow clothes, the kids set out for the "Big Hill". Quentin Park had a huge built-up area that teemed with kids all off for winter break. Fathers holding squirming toddlers in their arms huffed up the hill dragging sleds behind them. Older kids on wooden sleds joined hands and went down in groups, flinging themselves apart like slingshots as they picked up speed. Teenage couples held hands as the girls sat themselves on the sleds in front of their dates, the boys wrapping their arms protectively around girls who squealed in fear and delight as they shot off the top. Nick stood and stared, enraptured, until he felt a tug on his coat and his brother was taking off for the top, leaving Nick standing there with his mouth hung open.

Saucer tucked awkwardly under his arm, Nick's little legs pumped as he climbed the steep hill. His feet weren't used to snow, and it gave beneath him, making every step like five more. By the time he got to the top his brother had already jumped on his saucer and was careening his way down the hill with a whooped cry.

Reluctant to take his first trip down the hill among the teeming masses, convinced he'd take everyone else on the hill out like a giant bowling ball, Nick eyed up the back of the hill. A few intrepid kids were trying out that side but the snow was still pretty virgin there. Fifty feet out from the bottom was the start of forest, but Nick figured there was no way he'd ever make it that far.

Settling the plastic saucer on the ground, and then lowering his body to sit Indian style inside the bowl, he perched at the top, listening to the unique squeak-crunch of the snow flattening under his weight.

Digging mittened hands into the snow on either side he launched himself forward and gravity did the rest.

Cold air and snow rocketed past his face, his cheeks reddening and numbing. He leaned back instinctively, picking up speed and sailing down the hillside. When he reached the bottom he expected to slow, like he would on a roller coaster when the ride was over. But the practically friction-free connection of plastic and his light weight on the fresh snow meant no natural braking and the trees loomed up before him.

He heard a voice scream, "Fall out! To the side! Fall OUT!" and he dumped his body to the side, rolling several more feet, the wind knocked from his body.

He lay spread eagle in the snow, a face coming into his vision turning out to be that of one of the local kids, probably the one who had yelled at him.

"What the frick were ya thinking, stupid?" the kid taunted. "You tryin' to kill yourself, a-hole?"

Nick couldn't do much more than blink as cold settled into his limbs. He sat up a minute later, scanning around, trying to find his saucer. A bit later his eyes finally caught the shiny red plastic hugged up against the trunk of a huge old pine tree.

* * *

Twenty-five years later the lesson learned at the foot of a hill in Michigan saved his life on a mountainside in Nevada.

Thirty feet below him the cliff jutted out far enough to catch him.

His right leg shoved out to catch his weight on the shelf, he hit with a blinding sear of pain but threw himself to the side, as if dumping himself from an imaginary shiny red saucer. He let out a loud, "Oof!" as his shoulder and side took the brunt of the impact and he rolled several times, coming to rest in a clump of brush, hands reaching out to wrap around the branches to stop himself.

And just as before, wind knocked from his body, he lay stunned on his back, blinking as rain continued to pour from the sky and cascade down the hillside. Only this time the face that swam into his vision wasn't a punk kid from Michigan, it was Warrick's about twenty feet above him.

Seeing Nick disappear as he coasted down the trail, Warrick had managed to twist his body to keep going with the flow of water and mud and skidded himself to a stop on a natural lip about ten feet further.

He heard the grunt of pain from below and watched in time to see Nick roll to the side and land in a thorny bush, now not moving.

His first attempt to yell to his partner was drowned out by a crash of thunder. His next bellow of Nick's name got no response.

He skidded down a few more feet and tried again, panic tingeing his cry. "Nick!"

This time he was rewarded with a hand lifted in a weak wave, but still no voice response that he could hear.

At least he knew the man was alive.

He eyed the fall of the trail below him. It wound its way down in an s-curve, the second arc of its path taking him the closest to the shelf Nick was on, but still ten feet apart at least. Watching Nick earlier clinging to the cliff face and traveling forty some feet he figured he'd just do like he'd observed his friend do and inch his way over. Yeah, Nick had done it well on his first time, and had traveled much further, but then he hadn't had to do it in the middle of a raging thunderstorm with the mountainside crumbling under him.

He slid along the first of the curves, gasping several times as he lost his grip and skidded faster than planned, always managing at the last minute to dig his fingers into something that held and kept him glued to the trail.

As he arrived at the second arc he dug his heels in and wrapped his hands around the trunk of a spindly shrub. Nick had dropped his hand back down and was lying motionless again.

Warrick flinched as another scrape opened on his raw and ragged hands, a shard of bark from the bush jutting out raking across his flesh. Leaning out to his right he scrabbled for a foothold, checking that the ground under his toes would hold his weight. His hand sunk into the softening earth and found a root. Giving it a tug, holding his breath, he launched himself off the trail and hung for a minute until his left foot joined the right. He stood perched precariously on a few inches of rock, then managed to work up enough gumption to reach his right foot away. Two more leaps of faith and his right foot landed on the shelf where Nick was. Warrick flung himself over and landed with a grunt, heart pounding madly in his chest, practically kissing the ground beneath him.

He gave himself a minute to collect himself and realize that he was on a stable shelf of rock. He drew himself to his knees and crawled over to his partner's side.

Nick's eyes were open, blinking against the still pouring rain, then darting over in response to the touch of Warrick's hand on his shoulder. Nick gave him a feeble smile and wrapped a hand around Warrick's arm, using his partner's body to pull himself up.

He groaned in agony and took in a gasping breath, drawing rainwater into his throat that made him cough and gag.

Propped up on one elbow he hacked the water clear, almost falling back again weakly. Warrick sidled over to offer a shoulder for Nick to lean on as he pulled Nick's back pack, somehow still trapped around his shoulders, free and the Texan nodded in gratitude and inched himself up, letting himself be supported as he struggled to sit up.

Rain continued to course down the cliff side, the water rushing down around them, their bodies like dams diverting the stream around them.

"We need to move before we get washed away!" Warrick shouted over the water and wind. Nick's response was cut short as another flash of lightning burst overhead. The thunder followed a bit later, both men hoping that meant the storm was moving on.

"Can you move?" Warrick asked again after the rumble had faded.

Nick squinted water-coated eyes at him and nodded. The Texan's fingers gripped painfully on Warrick's arm as he stood, dragging the injured man up with him. Nick hopped on his left leg, right leg held out in front of him off the ground. Warrick gestured back with his head and the two men limped several feet back to the rear of the shelf where it met the cliff face.

Another shorter but broader chunk of rock jutted out above them acting as something of a roof and the water rushed off it in a frothy cascade. They held their breaths and breached the waterfall emerging on the other side to a slightly dryer area.

Warrick eased his partner down to the ground, his back now supported by the canyon wall, then dropped down heavily to join him. The sounds of their gasping and panting filled the small area, their breath puffing out in billowing clouds of vapor in the now freezing air.

Nick's eyes were screwed shut as he continued to breathe heavily, leaned up against the cliff face. Warrick took in the obvious pain the man was in and scanned Nick's beat-up body for obvious injury.

Obvious was a word he got stuck on as his eyes landed on Nick's right leg. Bright white bone, barely muted by dun-colored mud, jutted through the dark denim.

He wasn't sure if Nick even knew yet. Placing a hand on his friend's shoulder he brought his attention around.

Nick gave him a smile and nodded as his chest continued to heave with gasping breaths. His face behind the silvery vapor was pale, his brow scrunched up.

Warrick reluctantly dipped his head towards Nick's leg, his partner hesitating briefly then turning to see what Warrick saw.

"I think you Theismann'd yourself, bro."


	3. Joe Theismann

"Greg, have you seen Nick around? I have news on his maggot."

"I think he was headed back out to Diablo Canyon with Lockwood. Anything I might be interested in? Anything I could help with?" Greg asked with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

"I think your talents are best used in the lab, Greg."

The young lab rat tried to hide his disappointment. "C'mon, Grissom. I mean, it's not like I'm asking to go out in the field or anything. Just like to do something that doesn't involve swabs for a change."

The entomologist cast an appraising eye over the young man. Greg was practically making puppy eyes at him and Gil was surprised he didn't see sweat on the young man's upper lip, straining with the effort of keeping himself from bouncing up and down.

"It's not much, Greg…" he started, but the lab tech already had a grin spreading across his face.

The supervisor relented under the overwhelming enthusiasm. "His maggot is stunted."

"Stunted?" Greg asked in confusion. "Like did it smoke as a teenager?"

"No, Greg. This maggot was pulled off a body Nick found in the desert. It's from the family _Sarcophagidae. _This particular maggot was exposed to freezing temperatures. Its growth is stunted. It will never reach maturity."

"Kinda tragic, huh?" Greg mused. "Bet the momma fly wished for better for her baby."

Grissom's eyebrow rose, signaling an end to his patience. Greg snatched up the plastic vial containing the fly larva and turned on his heel, headed back into the bowels of the lab.

* * *

In 1985, Nick Stokes was still at Sam Austin High playing back-up quarterback to Lonnie Seavers, spending more time on the bench with the playbook than out on the gridiron. That Monday night had started out like pretty much every Monday night in Texas, and especially in the Stokes' household: in front of the TV. The Judge had few passions beyond family and the law, good old American football being one of them, and he was a rabid and deeply entrenched viewer. It didn't matter the team really, although he loved his Cowboys, and he would throw himself into every game with body and soul, face turning red as he would scream at bone-headed plays or bad ref calls. Jillian would wander in to place a quieting hand on his shoulder, pressing another cold can of beer into his hand with a whisper in his ear to mind his blood pressure, while Nick reclined sloppily on the couch, homework forgotten in the glow of electric violence and competition.

He spent more time watching the pros do their thing, marveling at some of the intricate plays, jotting down x's and o's and arrows all over his AP Physics notebook to be used later.

That particular night it was the Giants and the Redskins playing. Each team had its strengths, but, of course, Washington had Joe Theismann.

The game had been good, both teams evenly matched, but nothing especially noteworthy, and Nick had actually been able to make it through a little studying. His head had barely lifted from his Calculus text as he caught the attempt by Theismann to run a flea-flicker play. It was poorly done and didn't fool good old LT - Lawrence Taylor- the Giants premier linebacker and bane of every opponent's quarterback. Taylor and his cohort, Gary Reasons, both picked up on the feint and put Theismann in their sights.

Thirty seconds later, the two Giants collided, Joe Theismann between them, and Nick started to turn back to his book, the sack a done deal, when he saw Taylor fall, landing on the quarterback's right leg. Cameras almost picked up the audible snap as Theismann's leg fractured at the tibia and fibula, the ragged bone breaking the skin of his shin in front of tens of thousands of horrified spectators and home viewers.

Weeks later Theismann gave an interview about that horrific night.

_"It was at that point, I also found out what a magnificent machine the human body is," _Theismann said. _"Almost immediately, from the knee down, all the feeling was gone in my right leg. The endorphins had kicked in, and I was not in pain."_

Nick had read the article with a dubiousness born of watching the gruesome footage that the networks showed over and over again. There was no way in hell Theismann wasn't in horrible pain.

Almost twenty years later Nick Stokes had to agree with the Redskin. Because his eyes _saw_ the jagged end of his shinbone sticking out of his pant leg. But he felt …nothing. Sore and winded from his fall, but no pain - nothing below his right knee. And that scared him more than anything.

He reached fingers tentatively towards his leg, half certain it was an illusion. A stick, a piece of brush, some debris picked up when he fell. His fingers had just about reached the area when strong brown hands grabbed his and held them still.

"What the fuck are you thinkin', Nick? Don't-- just…don't."

He looked up to see his partner staring at him with the most freaked out expression he'd ever seen on his face. And he was pretty sure the expression on his face was a mirror image.

Another flash and Nick found himself holding his breath, counting Mississippi's like when he was a kid. He got to four Mississippi when the rumble of thunder sounded.

Water continued to cascade down the mountain, a screen of churning frothy tan water sluicing down in front of them.

"You were worried we wouldn't have enough water, bro?" The joke from earlier left his still stunned brain and popped from his mouth before he realized it.

Warrick looked at him incredulously, then quirked a half smile. "Be careful what you ask for, I guess." The small smile lingered on his face as he deflated, sagging on the muddy ground, running a hand through his curls, flinging away a handful of water. "Fuck, Nick. What a god damned mess."

Nick closed his eyes and knocked his head against the wall of rock behind him in frustration. "I think we can safely say we know what happened to Stacy Warner. Easy to drown in the desert when you're four thousand feet up and a storm comes along. But I'm telling' ya, Rick…I checked the weather report. It said hot and sunny- no chance of rain in Vegas."

"Well, when we get outa here we can talk to the weather guy, maybe take him on a trip up into the mountains and leave him there."

"Speakin' of getting outa here, you have your phone on you?"

"Yeah…don't you?"

"Yeah, but it was in my pocket," Nick said ruefully, hand already digging into his front pocket. His hand emerged with a broken mass of black plastic, small antenna hanging brokenly off the top and the main screen spider-webbed with cracks. He tried pushing a few buttons but there was an unsurprising lack of response.

"Man, I hate havin' to get a new phone. Takes forever to put all my numbers back in."

Warrick began digging through his pack for his phone. "Guess you're just too popular, bro."

"Popular, hell, Rick. Two parents, a brother and five sisters. Each with their home, work and cell numbers. Plus each of you guys, half the cops on the force, and most of the lab tech extensions. And yeah, I did have a few ladies' numbers, thank you very much. It's gonna take forever to feed those numbers back into a new phone if the memory chip didn't survive."

"Wouldn't worry about it, Nick. Think you'll be laid up long enough you'll be looking for somethin' to do to help kill the time," he said pointedly staring at Nick's leg. Nick grimaced and nodded angrily.

"Here we go," Warrick announced as he pulled his phone free from his bag. He chuckled as he pushed aside the deck of cards and Chapstick, his buddy reading him so well it was crazy spooky. He also had a small MP3 player, a red bandana, a magnifying glass, an extra handkerchief, and a folded up issue of the morning paper he'd been reading earlier waiting to be called before the judge.

He powered up the phone and waited to see how many bars. Half a bar that blinked went to full, then blinked again back to half. He found himself holding his breath as he waited to see where the roulette wheel of service access was gonna take him. After several more blinks the bar went away completely to be replaced with the words _No signal found_.

He shook his head and walked further out to the edge of their shelf, sticking his arm way out and trying to wave the phone around. Nothing. "Damn." He flopped back to the ground next to his partner. "No cavalry comin', boss. Looks like we're on our own. You, uh, tell anyone we were comin' out here?"

"Yeah. I think Greg knows. At least I think he was listening when I told him. I told him Lockwood wasn't comin' out with me and as I was leaving he told me to say hi to Cyrus."

"Great…anyone knowin' we're out here depends on the memory span of a guy whose head is already filled with biochemical formulas, bad Top Forty lyrics, and models' stats."

Lightning lit the sky once again and Nick waited for the eventual thunder. Five Mississippi's. Storm appeared to be moving on. The whole thing had blown over in a half hour. But what it did with the time it had …

The wind continued to blow steadily, ruffling the surface of the puddled water around them. Warrick began scraping at the mud that covered his limbs, clawing away gobs of cold tan goop, grimacing as it stuck to his fingers. "This stuff is like glue," he mumbled, then rose to his knees to crawl the few feet over to the waterfall. He dashed his hands under the running water, scrubbing away at the gritty paste, then reached into his back pocket to pull out a damp and wrinkled but thankfully mostly clean handkerchief. He ran it under the water until it was dripping then crawled back to hand the cloth to Nick.

The Texan took it with a small grateful smile and wiped at his face and hands, the fabric quickly becoming clogged with mud. Warrick snatched it from his hands to return to their makeshift faucet, rinsing it out and returning so Nick could work at the mud that covered his arms. A few more similar trips and Nick was mostly cleanish but goose bump-covered flesh again.

Warrick sat back on his haunches to stare at his partner. The easy part was done.

"You ready to do this, Bro?"

A tight-lipped nod was his response.

Warrick scooted over a bit as his body was blocking the feeble light, casting a shadow across his work area. He gripped his lower lip firmly between his teeth and leaned over to place his hands on the heavy denim of Nick's lower pant leg. Hands that were normally steady enough to lift prints from the glaze of a Krispy Kreme donut (and hadn't _that_ been a fun job) shook slightly and he pulled them away to ball them into fists, trying to will the vibrations away.

"Just do it, man," Nick said thickly.

Hands not much steadier returned to the denim as his fingers gently worked into the tear in the fabric. Once he'd gotten a firm purchase on each frayed edge he held his breath and pulled as hard as he could. The heavy fabric was stubborn and he worked his hands in further, brushing lightly against exposed bone.

He heard the slightest gasp escape his friend's mouth, but steeled himself to get it over with. Another attempt, knuckles whitening with the grasp he held, and the fabric tore from the knee to stop at the much thicker hem at the bottom.

Nick's flesh was pale where it wasn't bloodied or mud covered. The actual wound area was small, only half an inch of bone jutting through the skin, but blood was continuing its slow exodus from his body.

Casting a quick look at the tightlipped expression on Nick's face he reached over to snag his backpack again pulling out the last of his bottled water. He unscrewed the cap and at a brief nod from Nick poured the last of the liquid over the wound in an attempt to clear some of the mud away.

Nick grunted and paled but remained as still as he could, fingers clutched in the fabric of his jeans, digging at the flesh of his thigh above the affected area.

The taller man returned to the still gushing muddy water, filling the now empty bottle with tan frothy water. Sediment floated thickly in the water through the clear plastic and he eyed it doubtfully. The sound of ripping fabric from behind him and he turned to see Nick tearing off a strip of fabric from the bottom of his t-shirt.

"Here. Cover the top of the bottle," Nick muttered.

Warrick took the material and wrapped it around the open end of the bottle, the fabric filtering out most of the flotsam as he resumed trying to clean out the wound.

Satisfied it was as good as he was going to be able to get it he sat back on his heels, stymied as to what to next. The water had only thinned the blood still leaking out of his leg. "Bro, washing this thing out with muddy water ain't gonna do the trick. We gotta figure out how the hell to get off this mountain."

"We gotta splint it up. Wait for it to dry up a little and I'll limp it down."

His face not even bothering to hide his incredulity, Warrick almost laughed. "You remember how hard it was getting up with two good legs, buddy? How you fixin' to do it on one?"

"You splint it up good - I'll worry about gettin' down," Nick said with an attempt at a smile.

Warrick ran a hand thru his still damp hair, shaking his head. "Splint it up with what?"

"My back pack. I think I have what might do the trick."

Warrick kept shaking his head but gamely crawled over to snag Nick's backpack. He pulled the down coat out of the top and tossed at his friend. "Here. Put it on."

"Nah, I'm good," Nick said, a shiver giving him away.

"Bro, I may not have been an Eagle Scout but even I know first aid basics. You may be okay now but it won't last. Put it on."

He went back to pawing through the pack as Nick pulled the mostly dry coat on, hugging his arms around his chest with another barely hidden shiver. The taller man began piling the stuff from the pack next to him, marveling at all the crap Nick had chosen to bring with him.

The white first aid box was next. He cracked it back open and rummaged through it, coming up with three small silver foil packets of antibacterial ointment. He bit the corners off and squeezed them each on to the open wound. "Neosporin oughta take care of whatever crap I couldn't wash out."

Paper wrapped gauze squares were next. He undid the sterile packaging and placed one over the bloody area, the small white bandage quickly soaked through with crimson. He left that one there and quickly unwrapped a second, resting it atop the first to join its cousin in scarlet staining. Last one left in the white box, he layered on a third, then grabbed up the bandana to dry the area of bloody water as best he could. He bit a piece of white bandage tape off a roll from the box and began attempting to secure the gauze, the speed with which the top layer was coloring scaring the shit out of him. Nick's hands had returned to clawing at his thigh in an attempt to circumvent the pain, but the sweat on his upper lip said it wasn't doing much for him.

The kit used to its full potential, he set it aside and went back to pulling stuff out of the backpack. A small digital camera. A Maglite mini-flashlight. A small pair of binoculars. A navy blue bandana. A notebook with the nub of a pencil shoved in the spiral top. A Leatherman pocket tool/knife combo. And finally, flat on the floor of the pack were three shiny soft cover field guides.

He rifled through the books, checking out their covers. The first was _Songbirds of the Mojave_, and on the cover was a close-up shot of a Mountain Bluebird, its body a gorgeous pennant blue, its chest snowy white. The second was _Nevada Raptors_, the cover shot of a Cooper's hawk, russet feathers and a wickedly curved beak. The third was a field guide to desert flora, the ubiquitous saguaro cactus on its cover in the traditional touchdown pose.

He put the books down and turned to find Nick faintly blushing. "Nothing in here to splint with, Nick. What were ya thinkin' ya had?"

"The books. You can use them. Hate to ruin them but …"

Warrick cocked an eyebrow at him. "How'm I gonna use books?"

"Rip them in half. Roll 'em up," Nick responded seriously.

Warrick nodded, initially slow on the uptake but quickly seeing what his friend meant. He split each book in half and ripped them along their bindings, leaving him with six pieces, each with a sturdy but flexible front or back cover. He rolled each up tightly until he had what were in essence foot long logs of paper.

He sat back on his heels and waited for further direction.

Nick sat up a bit straighter against the wall. "Alright…here…hang on…" He took the coat off and removed his still sodden t-shirt, quickly redressing in the coat. "Not doing me any good and we'll need all the material we can get," he said as he saw his partner staring questioningly at him.

"Rip it in half, down the middle from the collar," he instructed. Warrick complied without question, figuring the ex-Scout probably knew what he was doing. When done he had two pieces of shirt, a sleeve on each one.

Nick grimaced. "This is the fun part," he grunted. "Slip my foot into the sleeve of one of the halves until the toe of my boot pokes through."

"That means an awful lot of moving of your leg, bro. You sure?"

"Gotta be done, Rick. G'head."

Warrick slipped the open sleeve over Nick's boot, lifting the leg as he eased the fabric down and around and back up. The fabric came about halfway up Nick's shin. "What next?" he asked, wiping sweat he couldn't believe had formed in the freezing air from his forehead.

When no answer came right away he looked up to see Nick's face screwed up and little puffs of vapor panted from his mouth.

" 'kay," the Texan managed to grunt out. "Put a splint on either side of the ankle and tie 'em on good 'n tight." He watched as his partner ripped the sad remains of one of his favorite t-shirts into long strips to tie around his ankle.

That completed Warrick sat back to give Nick a chance to catch his breath. All this moving of his leg was already taking its toll and Nick was panting heavily, his face almost obscured by a fog of chilled breath.

Nick shook his head, wanting to get on with it, hoping that once they had the leg immobilized that the pain might decrease a bit. He squeezed his damaged finger into his palm, the flare of pain temporarily diverting his attention from the knife blade digging into his shin.

"Do the knee next," he coughed out painfully, straightening his leg out as best he could since every molecule of his body wanted to pull away from Warrick's hands.

A splint secured on either side of his knee and partway up his thigh with more of the fabric strips, and Nick braced for what was next.

" 'kay. Now on either side of the break. Try to keep the bindings away from the …gauze."

The last set of splints fit almost perfectly into the space left; the last of the t-shirt strips wrapped around his lower leg on either side of the open wound.

"Last thing," he panted out, the words carried on more silvery vapor. "The ends of the sleeve part around the foot. Tie the ends to the knee bindings to immobilize it."

Nick considered the results. Not exactly ideal, not having a solid piece of wood on either side but the joints weren't moving and the rolled up books were strong enough to hold. Not much else to do about it any way. It would have to do. He ground out a smile at his partner. "Not bad, bro. We'll make an Eagle Scout out of ya yet."

"Nope," Warrick said, shaking his head firmly. "Not _ever_ doing this again. Uh-uh. No thanks. This was enough for one lifetime." He paused then squinted up one appraising eye at his friend. "How you holding up?"

"Good. Better," he amended. "Thanks."

"You hurt anywhere else? You're huggin' your chest."

"Ribs. Just bruised, I think." He watched Warrick's brow wrinkle in concern.

"You sure, bro?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I know what cracked ones feel like."

During all their activity the storm had blown completely over, the sun still pale behind heavy cloud cover. The mini-Niagara in front of them had slowed to a trickle and the winds calmed somewhat, but the air was still freezing cold, the storm apparently carried on the crest of a cold front.

"Hey, Rick?"

"Yeah?"

"D'you really bring a deck of cards? We've got some time to kill."


	4. Cacti and a Jukebox Revue

-1Warrick practically sputtered with disbelief, wondering how on Earth his partner could be so relaxed and so accepting of an unacceptable situation.

"Have you completely lost it, bro? You hit your head on the way down? I'll be damned if I'm gonna sit here all cozy like, whuppin' your ass at poker while you bleed out in front of me. I have to go get help, Nick."

A small smile quirked up the corners of the Texan's mouth. "Where you goin', Rick? In case you forgot, our trail is a river of mud."

"So I take the trail on my ass. Whatever I hafta do, Nick. How can you just _sit_ there--? Yeah, yeah, stop grinnin' like that. You know what I meant. _I_ can't just sit here and do nothin'. When I get back down I'll try the cell again. You get a signal last night out here with Cyrus?"

"Never used my cell. But leavin' is crazy, Man. Just take a seat, and we wait until it dries up a little. You go off half-cocked and you'll wind up face first down the mountain."

The taller man was half-convinced, ready to fold up stakes and settle down for a bit when his eye caught the sight of blood trickling free from the third layer of gauze on Nick's leg.

"You're leakin' like a sieve, bro. It can't wait." He held up a hand to silence his friend's protest. "I can do this. Rain's slowed way down and the storm's movin' on and I'll --"

"Fine. Go."

Warrick rocked back a bit on his heels, his face conveying wary doubt.

'You lettin' go, just like that? Why?"

"Cuz I'm too tired to argue with you and I know when you get like this not even Gil Grissom himself could conjure the words to stop you. So go."

"Nick, this isn't a game I'm tryin' to win here. I need to do this." _Why did it sound to his ear like a plea?_

"So go then. But if you fall down and break your neck, don't come cryin' to me," Nick said, the side of his mouth curling. Then his brow knit and destroyed the attempt to put his partner at ease.

"You need me to do anything before I take off?" the lanky man asked softly.

Nick's pallid face tinted red and the half smile was back. "Since you're askin'…"

"Anything, bud. What you need?"

"All that damn water I drank…"

Warrick's face broke into a pearly-toothed grin. "You want the water bottle?"

"No! No, I'll probably have a good long while pissin' into a tube or a container soon enough. Get me on my feet."

Warrick's grin faded to be replaced by a reproachful look.

Nick raised an eyebrow. "You said _anything,_ bro. C'mon. I can't wait much longer."

Shaking his head in frustration and amazement, Warrick walked over and stuck a hand out. "Not really sure how you're plannin' on getting up, all trussed up like a crown roast."

He shouldn't have doubted the stubbornness of the Texan. After flashing an evil look at the crown roast crack Nick planted one fist in the ground and grabbed hold of Warrick's outstretched hand with the other in a steely grip. Several grunts and groans later he was balanced on one leg, the other stuck out in front of him as he swayed back and forth.

"Alright, bro. Take her easy. You're wobblin' like a Weeble there. Just get your balance. I got ya." He moved his grip to Nick's wrist, holding the man temporarily in place while he stepped around him to snake one hand about his middle.

"Okay, now… three legged race time. You hop, and I'll try and keep your ass from hitting the ground. Deal?"

Nick gave a brief nod and puffed out a few pain-filled breaths.

By the time they got to the edge Warrick was practically carrying the shorter man, each jostle of his leg stealing a bit more of Nick's stamina.

"A'ight, bro. Now or never. Let fly." He loosened his hold on his partner's middle and planted both hands on his hips from behind, steadying him so he could stand. He heard the sound of Nick's zipper and politely turned his head to the side.

After a while of not hearing anything, but not sure if it was because his business was hitting the ground a thousand feet below them, Warrick cleared his throat. "How's it goin' there, buddy?"

"Stop talkin'," Nick grunted out.

"You plannin' on finishing up before the sun goes down, boss? You need to be--"

"I said, _stop talking_," the words ground out between clenched teeth. "You try standin' on one leg, your dick in your hand and some guy's hands on ya. It's… it's… disconcerting, man."

Warrick smiled behind him, laughing ruefully as he realized the position his poor injured friend was in. "Sorry, bro. I'd leggo but you'd be headed over the edge in a minute. Just think of rushing water… a wide open faucet, water gushing out the end…a raging river--"

"Yeah, yeah… I got it. I don't need your mind games. I got this."

"You sure? Cuz I could grab the bo--"

"I _got_ it… thank you." About a minute later Warrick heard the ratcheting of metal teeth closing up.

"Monster back in its cage there, bro? C'mon, let's get you back down."

Arm back around Nick's middle he helped his partner back to his original spot against the cliff side.

While Nick sat there panting through the pain, Warrick folded his arms across his chest. "Was it worth it?"

"Yes. You can go now," Nick said, not even bothering to hide the bitterness in his voice.

Warrick, as he usually did, ignored the snippiness and cast a quick eye about their little shelf. The area was still relatively dry and Nick would be protected should the rains come back. "You need anything else before I head out, Nick?"

"Shove my bag over would ya?"

Warrick toed the knapsack over, then sent his over with a nudge. Nothing in either bag would help the man any further he figured, but if Nick wanted them the least he could do was make it easier on the poor guy.

"I still have a few hours of daylight. Plenty enough time to get down to the canyon floor and try the cell there. I'll take the Denali back out to the main road and either try again or flag someone down if the coverage won't pick up."

Nick nodded at him, eyes closed as he leaned his back against the wall. "Good luck."

Several seconds later Nick felt something light strike his chest and he looked blearily down at what had hit him. The empty water bottle. Warrick's back was already visible as he began making his way over to the mud-slickened trail.

* * *

An hour later, all Warrick had for his pains was clothing soaked once more by the light drizzle still dampening the air, and a new coating of mud on almost every inch of his body. And he'd only made it another few hundred feet down the trail.

Two months prior, the sight of his partner's body spread-eagle atop broken glass and bushes had resulted in a rushed call to home base, the words "officer down" resulting in the rapid dispatch of a rescue squad and several of Vegas' finest. It had felt like an eternity at the time, placing fingers on Nick's wrist, searching desperately for a pulse. He'd been unwilling to even try for the carotid and risk moving a potentially broken neck. Ten minutes later paramedics were on the scene, assessing vitals. Ten minutes after that, Nick was safely secured to a backboard and on his way to Desert Palms. What had seemed an eternity quickly turned into a flurry of activity he couldn't fully remember as he sat in a chair outside the ER room. Eons later, a doctor had emerged to tell the gathered group their colleague was going to be all right. At the time he had been consumed with anger that Nick's attacker had gotten away. Later, after the incident at Nick's house, when it dawned on him that Crane had been in the attic of the house the whole time, probably staring out at the gathered medics working on his partner, that anger had boiled into a nice hot rage. An ultimately impotent rage as Crane wound up experiencing a psychotic break after his capture and was summarily sent away to mutter at the walls of a padded room in a state mental facility.

Nick had recovered from his injuries and was back on the job a few days later, bandage gone from his head to expose a neat row of black stitches over a scabbed and healing cut, but the unwieldy wrist brace not gone yet for another couple of weeks.

Warrick had stood outside the room where Nick worked on his first day back, the Texan still confined to lab work until he was cleared for full duty. Watching Nick sucking in a breath as he leaned over the table to reach for a tool, the braced wrist hugging still healing ribs, Warrick considered going in to offer a hand. But going in and spending one-on-one time together would probably mean talking about what happened. And considering Warrick still felt like it was all his fault, he chickened out and kept on walking. Too bad Hallmark didn't make a "Sorry you got thrown out a second story window" card or what was really needed, "Glad to hear your stalker was put away and he only managed to kill one psychic in your living room."

Now here he was, faced with his partner down again, but no hurried calls for help, no passing him off to medics and an ER crew. It was him and him alone who was going to get Nick off the mountain.

He lost his footing for what felt like the hundredth time, his boot soles finding no traction in the silt-filled water that still coursed down the trail. Hands grabbed wildly for support, his fingers finally catching on a tuft of hardy grass springing from between two rocks.

Vegetation was weird up here. It had to be able to flourish under the harshest of conditions. Temps over a hundred and fifty in high summer were common, but it also wasn't unheard of to see snow this high up in the winter months. Days and weeks could pass without water, or water could descend from the heavens in torrential buckets, whisking away most everything in its path down the mountain side. Yet wherever the seeds could take hold, in the rocky soil, in the cracks between boulders, in the crevices that the winds chiseled into the canyon wall, life could be found. It was funny how resilient some things could be. He couldn't help but take another glance up the hillside; he couldn't see his partner atop the rocky shelf, but it helped focus him as he grunted and released his handhold to make his way down once more.

He took a second to try to clear his eyes of the sweat mixed in with the drizzly rain that gathered there. His clothing stuck to him like wet newspaper, chafing under his arms and at his belt line. Wet denim was no fun on other parts of his body either.

The path took another sharp turn and he planted his butt back on the muddy ground again in order to take the angle more safely. He sucked in a breath as he felt himself missing his turn, fingers scrabbling for purchase, his heart hammering again his chest. The whole trip had been punctuated with little bursts of adrenaline; every slip, every falter, the possibility of falling and failing. Failing his partner again. Fingertips fell into a rut in the ground and he hooked his fingers around a root, scooting his feet back in the right direction, heart slowing slightly as he righted himself and put himself back on the path.

It didn't help that his eye had almost swollen shut, taking away his depth perception, rendering his view down to two dimensions. The rock that had struck his cheek below his eye had been the most frightening thing he had ever experienced. Even after the initial shock, when he realized his eye had escaped harm, it hit him how close he had been to putting himself out of a job permanently.

Another break in the trail, not too great a distance, one he had easily leapt across when the footing was dry and sandy. But things couldn't have been more different or difficult now. He eyed the gap, measuring it up, literally pulling the flesh down from around his closed up eye, hissing at the pain. Two dimensions morphed to a blurry three and he gauged the distance again. Eyes scanned for a dry spot to land on, but every rock shone with rain cover, every spot of ground reflected back with muddy residue. He grabbed a hold of a gnarled branch on a thorny bush, spikes digging into the web of tender skin between his thumb and index finger. He stretched out one foot as far as he could, wishing that his lanky extra height would serve him well here. Maybe if he'd been NBA height he'd have been able to do it, but the four feet of space may as well have been a hundred. _So, jump it, Brown. C'mon. You did track in high school, and yeah maybe it was senior year only, his growth spurt having hit so late, but you can do this. _

He rubbed his hands together in preparation, planning a most ungainly belly flop if that's what it took to stick it, and reared back a step, pushing off the edge and clearing the gap easily.

Too easily.

Feet skated on muck and he windmilled his arms, his ass descending to hit the ground hard, his momentum carrying him right on past his desired landing spot and right off the edge.

Off the edge and into the arms of a squat grouping of prickly pear cacti five feet below.

* * *

"_In a musty old hall in Detroit they prayed_

_In the Maritime Sailors' Cathedral_

_The church bell chimed, 'til it rang 29 times_

_For each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald._

_The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down_

_Of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee_

_Superior, they say, never gives up her dead_

_When the gales of November come early."_

Nick checked his watch. It had taken him seventeen minutes to sing the whole song, all fourteen verses. While the original running time on the song was like six minutes, he hadn't remembered all of the verses the first time through and it took some mumbling and humming and figuring out the rhymes to get them all down. He thought he had it pretty much all right, although he hadn't heard the whole song in a few years.

He'd started that old time sucking standard, _A Hundred Bottles of Beer on the Wall_, but he found himself singing the bastardized lyrics that Greg had made up years before,

"_99 bottles of beer on the wall_

_99 bottles of beer_

_you swab one down_

_run it through CODIS_

_98 bottles of beer on the wall."_

Somehow, that version wasn't as satisfying, and was too awkward to sing properly, plus it always sounded better when it was a busload of kids coming back from a game.

So he had switched to _Bohemian Rhapsody_, but he really didn't have the pipes Freddy Mercury had, especially for the operatic parts, and even though he was about as alone as a man could be, he found himself too embarrassed to even attempt it.

He wracked his brain trying to come up with long songs with multiple verses, anything to take his mind off the growing pain in his leg and the sight of the blood leaving the confines of the gauze and pooling on the sandy floor beneath him.

_American Pie. _Ah, that old standard, and that sucker had to run at least ten minutes. By the time he mangled and mumbled his way through it he'd have killed about twenty minutes. And that brought him some small satisfaction.

If only he could remember how the damn thing started.

Okay, Stokes. C'mon. c'mon. all right then, start with the chorus. Everyone remembers the chorus. Right? So why couldn't he remember… _Bye bye _…yeah …

"_Bye, bye Miss American Pie drove my Chevy to the levy but the levy was dry an' them good ol' boys were drinkin' whiskey and rye singin' this will be the day that I die, this will be the day that I die…"_

Ooookay. Maybe not the wisest of choices.

He pounded his head against the wall behind him in frustration. His first inclination after Warrick had left was to sketch a little. Pencil in hand, he summoned up an image of the Cooper's hawk from the cover of his now destroyed guide. He roughed in an outline of the raptor, small head, long body, arrow straight tail feathers, then added in the small dark eye. It was as he started in on the details, the hooked beak and the curved talons, that he realized his hand was shaking. Badly. He closed and opened his fist, shaking it out a few times, but the second the graphite hit paper the tremors returned.

He had turned the page disgustedly and started making a list. He had always been a list maker, learning that little trick from his mom. A woman who was going to succeed as a Public Defense attorney and raise a ranch with seven kids and a very busy and hands off husband needed to bring organization out of chaos. And one of the ways she did it was with her daily lists.

Jillian Stokes would rise daily at 5am, kids and husband still snug in their beds, dogs asleep on the couch and at the table beneath her feet, and she would pour herself a huge mug of steaming hot coffee and begin her list. Sometimes it was only a few things. As the kids got older and started joining more activities, and Bill worked his way up the political ladder, the list grew longer. Ballet, tap, and gymnastics for the girls. Tae kwon do and baseball for the boys. Pick up the dry cleaning. Buy another five pounds of cold cuts- how did they go through so much lunch meat so fast? Dinner with the Attorney General. Better pick up another sack of spuds and make sure there's enough steaks in the freezer. Nicky's dentist appointment at 4pm. Maybe his brother can bring him.

As he had grown older, in his position as the youngest in the family, Nick had seen the pandemonium his mother dealt with, and usually with a calm voice and mellow demeanor. Somehow, every morning, kids got on the bus, brownbag lunches in hand, kiss on the cheek if Mom caught them on the way out the door. Later, there were grabs for the car keys and promises not to be out too late after school, and reminders of who had to work that night. And Nick observed all of this with what he wouldn't recognize until he became an adult as admiration. As a kid it was expected… no, taken for granted. But he saw the lists, and as he was usually the last out the door, always forgetting to grab his jacket or his homework, or his baseball mitt, he sometimes looked back to see his mom wipe a hand across her brow and turn from the door to finally run upstairs and start her own preparations to leave the house.

And thus Nick became a list maker himself. Just himself to manage, but with the double and triple shifts he worked it seemed like things would get lost in the shuffle. A reminder to himself to pay the water bill, or buy fish food, or pick up something for Mom's birthday and get it in the mail far enough in advance to make it in time. It saved him FedEx charges and his mother's hurt feelings.

So he started a new list. Give Warrick the key to the new place and give him the code to the security system. Make sure he feeds all the fish, not forgetting the ones in the small bowl in his kitchen like he'd done before. That was fun, returning home from a Christmas jaunt to Dallas to find his beta floating upside down. Most of his plants had been droopy and dry as well, Warrick not realizing with his decidedly black thumb that in the desert, pouring a Dixie cup of water over a plant once in a week wasn't sufficient.

Sighing, he realized that someone was going to have to pick up the Stacy Warner case. He pulled the map out of the pocket of his coat and unfolded it again. The wavy topological lines meant little to his untrained eye; he knew what denoted highland and what low, but had it not been labeled Diablo Canyon, he'd have never known it was the hellhole they were in now. He folded it back up and returned it to the pocket, and added make sure coat and map go with Warrick to get entered in as evidence to the list.

Only as he looked what he had just added, he found he could barely decipher the shaky chicken scratching on the paper.

So now he sang. Didn't require steady hands. But it did require a relatively clear head. And as he started in on _Margaritaville_ he realized that, no matter that he had heard the song a billion times or more, he couldn't remember any of the words beyond something about looking for a lost salt shaker.

As his thoughts coagulated in his brain like cold melted cheese, clumping into thick greasy unyielding lumps, he felt something break free and register. His truck registration renewal was due in a week.

He fumbled the notebook and pencil stub back into his lap and managed to scrawl the word _truck_ on the paper. It looked like something a five year old would write. A dyslexic five year old at that.

He let the notebook and pencil fall from increasingly numb hands and shoved his fists in the pockets of the coat, closing the down-filled garment tighter around him. The trembling in his hands spread to his limbs and he found himself shivering, his teeth joining the fun as they chattered against each other. He swallowed against a wave of nausea and held his breath through the next.

Reluctantly freeing a hand from his pocket he pulled his backpack over and fumbled open the white metal box. Taped to the inside of the top lid was a small booklet labeled Emergency First Aid. He thumbed open the yellowed and brittle pages covered in pictures of victims of various traumas: Bandages wrapped around heads coifed with seventies afros and slings hanging from shirts with butterfly collars. He laughed despite his discomfort. The booklet had been in the kit since he got it for Scouts and had never been opened before. Page three was what he needed.

**Symptoms and Treatment of Shock**


	5. You Can Tell a Scout from Texas

Falling five feet on your ass sucks. Falling those same five feet into a copse of cacti sucks more. A little extra added bonus, because landing bone-jarringly onto your coccyx wasn't bad enough. With a groan loud enough to bounce off the canyon walls Warrick found a clear spot on the ground and planted a hand under him, lifting his body up off the cactus beneath him and stood unsteadily, mentally taking inventory of the damage.

Badly skinned elbows _thank God he'd worn long sleeves_, a sore hip, a _really_ sore tailbone, and his favorite shirt and jeans trashed. The elbows were torn out of both sleeves and the jeans had caught on something on the way down and ripped the right front pocket completely off. His hand fell to the other pocket, another groan slipping from his mouth as he pulled the remains of his cell phone out. The flip part had been knocked completely off, the screen completely shattered. He pressed the power button a few times with breath held, but got no response from the smashed up, now useless chunk of metal.

* * *

Symptoms of Shock:

Sweating

Pale and cold clammy skin

Rapid and/or weak pulse

Confusion and anxiety

Fatigue

Thirst

Tremors or shakiness

Decreased consciousness or unconsciousness

Nausea and vomiting

Rapid breathing

Decreased urination

Seeing it all laid out in black on white brought what had been a small niggling fear gnawing at the back of his brain for release into front and center, _no bones about it, nice pun, Stokes, and holy shit but this is really happening._

The first clue should have been that his teeth hadn't stopped clacking together like one of those chattering novelty gags that ran around on the table. Ladle on the fact that he could feel sweat pouring from his pits to run down his ribs and pool at the top of his jeans _damn polyester lining of the coat doesn't soak up shit, _and running a hand that felt like a fresh caught catfish through the sweat that puddled at his hairline, and he had the first two in the bag.

Anxiety. Hell yeah. In spades. Fatigue? Ditto. Shakiness and tremors is a given and oh, shit … … … yup, nausea. Another groan through a wave that had the bile in the back of his throat and he realized as he puffed mightily with the effort not to throw up that he had scored rapid breathing, too.

Won't know about the decreased urination for a bit, but at least he had no worries about using the bottle for a bit.

* * *

Staring at the crushed cell phone as if wishing really hard would make the device miraculously repair itself was an exercise in futility, but it was about the only exercise Warrick felt up to at that moment. Tossing his head back to stare at the heavens, mouth open to allow the still drizzling rain to collect on his tongue, he squeezed his eyes shut in anger and frustration. Was this all some kind of cosmic joke? What had he done wrong to bring down all this upon him and his partner? Where had the famous Warrick Brown luck gone to, now, when it was most needed? When his train of thought started on the _what could go wrong next? _track he hurriedly threw on the brakes, not willing to tempt fate any further.

Too late. When he ran a hand down his arm to rid it of the mud coating it he pulled his hand back with a sucked in breath as pinpricks of pain fired off down his flesh. Cactus. Cacti have spines. He pulled his arm up closer to his eye, the fading light not revealing any obvious spikes. So then why did it feel like he'd dunked his arm in a vat of hot oil? He scrunched up his eyes tighter, squinting now as he brought his arm an inch away from his eyes. Thousands of small hairlike spines covered his arm. He looked back at the cacti he had landed in, noting three inch long spines jutting from the plants, yet he had no overt bleeding - nothing to say he'd been speared in a thousand places. No, what he had were the smaller cousins, those that detached from the plant and were carried around like a million fishhooks in his flesh. And as he ran a hand down his other arm, lightly, fearful of causing more pain, he realized that just about every inch of exposed skin was covered in them. He reached a tentative hand down to his legs, but while he could feel them embedded in the fabric, the heavy denim must have been enough to stop them. Considering he'd landed on his ass it was the first thing he could count as lucky since they'd started out on this damn trip.

* * *

Treatment of Shock:

Dial 911 or call your local emergency number.

Immediately reassure and comfort the casualty if conscious

Have the person lie down on his or her back with feet higher than the head.

Check for signs of circulation (breathing, coughing or movement). If absent, begin CPR.

Keep the person warm and comfortable. Loosen belt(s) and tight clothing and cover the person with a blanket.

Even if the person complains of thirst, give nothing by mouth.

If the person vomits or bleeds from the mouth, turn the person on his or her side to prevent choking.

Seek treatment for injuries such as bleeding or broken bones.

Prepare for cardiopulmonary resuscitation.

Shock may be mitigated by elevation of the lower extremities above the head and if blood loss can be stopped.

_Call 911...now why didn't I think of that? _As far as comfort and reassurance, well, he'd be both comforted _and_ reassured if he could just stop shaking. And feeling like he was gonna puke. And if his leg would stop bleeding, that would comfort him like all get out.

Warm and comfortable. Not much to be done about that as he was neither. Seek treatment for broken bones. Well, no shit, Sherlock. Prepare for cardiopulmonary resuscitation. Prepare how? Not quite there yet, and the whole _shock may be mitigated _part sure sounded good to him. Two parts to that, though. Raise his legs and stop the bleeding. The first would be easy enough. The second … well, only one thing to do about that. And that was set the break.

* * *

He had two choices. Keep making his way down the canyon, slipping, sliding, landing on spine-covered arms, and getting down to the truck, no cell phone, and start driving. In the dark. Or, climb back up the few hundred feet he had descended and rejoin Nick on the shelf until the morning.

Seemed a simple decision, but as he eyed the deepening shadows that darkened the already treacherous path, he contemplated a third choice. Sit his ass down and wait until morning. Wet, tired, freezing cold, and yeah- right now, nothing sounded more desirable than hunkering down amongst the spiny brambles and cooling his jets. His eyes picked out an outcropping of rock - similar to the one that hung over the shelf above, and began making his way over to sit in its meager shelter. Just a few minutes he promised himself. Just long enough to figure out a plan. Set a spell and put some thoughts together straight in his mind.

From the time the storm had come up on them, their whole mad dash down the mountainside, then watching his partner rocket off the cliff, only to find out the devastating injury Nick had suffered- that whole time he had been operating on pure adrenaline, driven by fear primarily, now that he was admitting things.

The whole time he had been splinting up Nick's leg, watching the blood continue to well up from the wound, seeing the pain his partner exerted so much effort to keep hidden, the voice in the back of his head was telling him - _go - go - go_. Go do _something. _Go get help. No time to think about a plan, no time to think about the hazardous path running with mud that landed them in this mess in the first place. And just as Nick had predicted - he'd fallen, nearly breaking his neck, and destroying the one tenuous chance they had at connection and communication.

Adrenaline now fading, along with their light, he was at a loss. A complete loss as to what to do next.

Re-commit to the flooded trail, continuing down the next few thousand feet in the increasing nightfall, hoping to make it in one unbroken piece to the truck? Or climb back up to the shelf, return to Nick with his tail tucked between his legs, licking his wounds and allowing his friend a few _told you so_s. And accepting that there would be no help coming their way until he could attempt the way the following morning. And would Nick _have_ until the next morning?

* * *

"_You can tell a Scout from Texas, you can tell him by his walk…"_

Just one quick pull and it would be all over … just one tug, like ripping a Band-Aid off the biggest fucking cut ever. Like taking a hit to the gut. Like taking the face full of Mace he'd volunteered for when a buddy who went the Police Academy route back in Dallas had bragged/bitched about how bad it had hurt, how he'd puked for twenty minutes afterwards, and Nick had stepped to the bait and had squeezed his fists into balls so tightly he coulda made diamonds from charcoal briquettes, but he'd taken it and FUCK yeah, it sucked, and it burned, but through the pain he could hear his friend half razzing him, half cheering him on and a hand on his shoulder had guided him over to take a seat on a cement curb and handed him bottle after bottle of saline to rinse his eyes but the liquid fire wouldn't wash away. A trip to the ER later they'd finally gotten him cleaned up, his buddy having to reassure the staff Nick wasn't a perp. A week later he was still getting sideways looks from women in bars who figured him as some kind of rapist when they caught the chemical burns around his eyes.

So this would be nothing. Childs play.

"_You can tell a Scout from Texas, you can tell him by his talk…"_

He gritted his teeth through another bout of nausea, huffing in little short breaths, swallowing the bile back down, and hurriedly stuffed everything back into his backpack, adding all of Warrick's stuff for good measure.

Dragging himself around on his rear he scrabbled for rocks, piling them up next to the backpack, "_You can tell him by his manners, his appetite and such…" _his voice catching and warbling as his ruined fingernail snagged on a stone that was reluctant to give up its spot in the ground, but he found himself glad for the temporary overload of pain, dragging his attention away from the tempest in his stomach and the ache in his leg.

Once he had a respectable pile of stones he piled them on top of the backpack, fumbling to catch the ones that fell back off the uneven surface and put them back onto the mound.

He gave a light tug on the protruding shoulder strap, heartened when it didn't move with the effort. He tugged a few times more, a bit harder each time, but the bag seemed weighted well enough to remain stationary.

Crabbing backwards on his hands and rump he lined his foot up with the strap, hooking his toes up and underneath, bracing for what he had to do next.

"_You can tell a Scout from Texas, you can tell him by his walk,_

_You can tell a Scout from Texas, you can tell him by his talk,_

_You can tell him by his manners, his appetite and such, _

_Yeah, you can tell a Scout from Texas, BUT YOU SURE CAN'T TELL HIM MUCH!"_

And his voice ruptured into a coughed out barking scream as he felt the raw jagged edges of bone rub against each other. He felt the edges of his vision tunneling down as excruciating pain flared into a white hot ball that oddly took form as a high-pitched noise in his ears that blocked out all other sound- like a Star Trek phaser set to overload was the only analogy he could grasp at the time, and it made sense as it only increased in pitch, screeching ever higher until he thought he might fade to blue then red like they showed on the old show, winking out of existence. Unfortunately, real life and cheesy old sixties sci-fi shows rarely had much in common, and there was no explosion, no demolecularization, only agonizing pain.

* * *

Ultimately, Warrick's desire to hunker down in the cover of the rock shelf was thwarted by the pain in his rear end. After easing his sore and tired body down to the ground he immediately hissed as his weight fell on his tailbone. After several fruitless attempts to lean side to side and switch his weight from one cheek to the other, he sighed explosively and swore in frustration, pulling himself back up. There wasn't even enough room to pace back and forth under the short covering so he eased his lanky frame back against the canyon wall behind him and stared balefully out at the rain. His eyes grew tired of looking at newspaper grey sky so he closed them, wrestling once more with his decision.

A short time later he was startled out of his fugue by an odd sound. The sound of nothing. His eyes snapped open, expecting to see the same hazy rain as before, but the air in front of him looked clear. He stuck a hand out from under the shelter, pulling it back to find his pruny flesh _not_ covered in fresh moisture.

The rain had stopped.

The patter of raindrops splashing on hard rock had been a constant white noise din in the background and its sudden cessation was like someone had shut the windows against the street noise outside. The hum was not really noticed until it was gone.

He stepped out from under his shelter and looked out at the sky. Off in the distance the greys were morphing to pinks and lavenders, the storm clouds moving on, but the sun setting right behind it. Short bursts of bird song twittered from a nearby clump of bushes as the wildlife shook off the rain waters and resettled themselves in their waterlogged perches.

And from above came a sound that made him quirk up an eyebrow in disbelief, followed by amusement. The sound of Nick's voice carried out from above, and he was singing. And not very well. And what the Hell was that song? It took a minute for him to figure out the tune. _The Yellow Rose of Texas. _At least he figured that's what the melody was, considering the words didn't match and Nick sang off tune and half shouted most of the lyrics by the sound of it.

Something about Scouts from Texas… he'd never heard it before but wasn't surprised, since his partner and he rarely saw eye to eye on music, the Texan's ear enjoying twangy tunes about broken hearts, crying into beer, and odes to dogs and pickup trucks, and Warrick's taste running more to complex jazz and old school blues.

But this song was just plain bizarre.

He shook his head, smiling, comforted by the still pretty strong voice, clueing him in to his friend's current state of health when that comfort was shattered into a million pieces by the sound of Nick's voice rising in tone and volume, breaking off into a scream that sent every hair on his body standing straight up.

He planted his feet back on the trail and sprinted back up the mountain.


	6. A Bonesetting Song

It's amazing what adrenaline can do for a person. Warrick's feet splashed in puddles, slipped in mud, and dug into the soft ground as he launched his body up the mountainside. When he fell, he scrambled for handholds, fingers wrapping around roots and branches, toes pushing off from whatever rocks would hold his weight. No rain, but the air was still heavy with humidity and his eyes burned with sweat dripping from his hairline.

It had taken him an hour to pick and flail and ultimately fall his way down the trail, only making it several hundred feet down. The rain hadn't stopped long ago enough to dry the trail but fear fueled him and he climbed like a man possessed.

He hadn't heard a peep from above since Nick's pain-filled scream some twenty minutes before.

In his haste he very nearly passed the shelf right by. Covered in the dark blue coat and wearing dark jeans, Nick was hidden in the shadows at the back of the shelf; the feeble light reflecting palely off of his skin was the only reason Warrick saw him.

"Nick!"

He saw a ghostlike hand wave at him, but no verbal answer.

"What's goin on, Nick? Talk to me, bud," Warrick shouted out as he planted his toes in the crevices and began to make his way over.

"Still here…"

"Yeah, I kinda figured that out, bro. Hang on, I'll be right there."

He landed on the shelf and quickly dropped down into a crouch next to where Nick sat in the oddest position.

Left leg sitting atop the two knapsacks, the toes of his right boot tangled in the arm strap of one of them, Nick lay on the cold stone floor, staring up at his rocky roof.

"Doesn't look too comfortable there, bud," Warrick said quietly. "You mind telling me what the hell you're doin'?" His harsh sounding words were mollified by the hand he placed on Nick's shoulder, feeling his partner shaking like a leaf under the coat.

When no answer was forthcoming he shook the shoulder lightly. "C'mon, Nick. You shouldn't lay here on the cold floor. You're freezing. You should sit up."

Nick's head shook no. "Need to keep m' feet up," he managed to say between teeth chatters. He waved a hand towards a small booklet laying open on the ground.

Warrick picked it up and scanned the contents of the page in the waning light.

"Shit, bud. I'm sorry. Here, let me figure something out. You're all tangled up in the backpack. Let me find something else to prop your feet up."

"Didn't get tangled. Was tryin' to set it."

"Set what? Your leg? Jesus, Nick! Why? Everything I ever read said don't mess with setting a broken bone- let the professionals do it."

"You got an osteopath around?" Nick asked with a grim smile. "I gotta set it. 'less it's set it'll keep bleeding. Needs a better bandage. I tried, but the bag wasn't heavy enough."

Warrick put one and one together and came to a horrifying conclusion.

"Damn, that's why I heard …" He saw Nick's eyes turn away in embarrassment. "…Singing. What was that song you were butcherin'?" he quickly joked to save his friend's pride.

"Old Scout song. Hadn't sung it in years."

"Yeah, well, we gonna do this, no more Scout songs. That ain't no kind of song to set a leg to."

"Oh, yeah," Nick asked, sides of his mouth lifting in a tight smile. "What you got in mind?"

"I'll figure something out. A'ight. You sure about this, Nick?"

A short nod. "Gotta be done."

Warrick nodded his head. "Tell me what to do."

"First, get the damn bag off of it," his partner said with annoyance.

Warrick untangled the arm strap, easing it down off the toe of Nick's boot, lowering the leg back flat down on to the ground. He pulled the blood-soaked gauze free from the gory wound; it pulled free without resistance, the bandage tape completely loosened by the still oozing fluids.

" 'kay. What next?"

"Not sure. Kinda wingin' it here myself. Pull on it. See if it'll drop back into place." He gave a short shrug.

Warrick's lip curled involuntarily but he quickly put on his game face for his buddy. He gave a short nod, then took in a deep breath.

Placing his hands on either side of the boot, Warrick looked in Nick's eyes and smiled. His lips pursed slightly and from his mouth issued the unmistakable _ch-ch-ch-ch _of a hi hat cymbal playing 16th notes.

Nick looked at him curiously, then knocked his head lightly against the ground with a small incredulous grin.

"You got a wah-wah in there?" he asked Rick.

"Just you wait," his partner said with a chuckle. Moments later after several measures of 16th notes, he began an admirably spot-on imitation of a 70's electric guitar, like something straight out of a porno movie, or in this case, a blaxpoitation film.

His hand tightened on Nick's boot as he wrapped his fingers over the top.

Somewhere from deep within the tall man's chest rumbled the soulful baritone of Isaac Hayes.

"_Who's the black private dick  
that's a sex machine to all the chicks?"_

Nick's eyes stayed open and a gruesome sickly smile formed on his face.

"_SHAFT!  
Ya damn right!"_

Warrick began tugging on the boot, his eyes flitting back and forth between his partner's face and the still exposed portion of bone.

"_Who is the man that would risk his neck  
for his brother man?"_

Nick's grin grew wider as his face grew paler.

"C'mon, partner. Can't have me singin' by myself here."

"_SHAFT!  
Can you dig it?"_

Nick nodded, breathing heavily, green setting in at the edges of his mouth.  
_  
"Who's the cat --that won't --cop out  
When --when --"_

"C'mon, buddy. You got it. Next part." His hands kept pulling inexorably on the top of the boot, now turning Nick's foot slightly, grimacing as he heard a groan slip from his partner's mouth.

"_When there's danger all about?"_

Nick joined in with a whispered grunted voice. "_Right On!"_

"_They say this cat Shaft is a bad mother-"_

Nick began groaning in earnest, while Warrick finally squeezed his eyes shut against seeing his best friend in so much pain. He began shaking his head, disgusted at what he was doing, petrified he was only making things worse.

"_He's a complicated man  
but no one understands him but his woman_

_JOHN SHAFT!"_

Nick planted his fists in the ground and pushed hard away from his partner still grasping the top of his boot. Warrick's eyes flew open as he felt the violence of Nick's action and saw his friend's face screwed up in agony, his mouth wide open, gasping for air, little squeaks emanating from his parched throat.

A final half yelled, half sobbed sound and Warrick looked down to see the end of the bone had dropped back down into place. He quickly reached into his bag and pulled out a clean handkerchief, looping it over the wound and pulling down tightly, setting the knot slightly off center.

He laid a hand on Nick's other leg, feeling him quaking with tension and pain. "It's done, buddy. It's done. Just chill…"

Nick gave a short nod, still panting, sweat pouring down his face. The green cast had spread and what was white was now a sickly mint color.

He watched as Nick's eyes grew wider and he began breathing faster. His chest began to hitch and he looked at Warrick wildly; his eyes took on a downcast look and then he squeezed them shut altogether.

"Rick - I -- shit…"

" 'sokay, buddy. I won't look at ya."

Nick turned his head as best he could and vomited on to the cold stone floor.

* * *

With a few well-placed scoops of cold sandy mud Warrick covered the small pile of sick, tamping down the smell that had hung in the humid air.

They'd gotten Nick settled at the rear of the shelf, laying on his back, arm bent behind his head for a pillow, other arm flung across his eyes, feet propped up on the re-piled backpacks. Between chattering teeth and the still almost overwhelming urge to hurl he hadn't uttered a word since they'd set his leg, all his energy turned inward to battle pain and nausea.

Before restacking the packs Warrick had gone back through them, looking for anything else that could be used to help out their situation. The matches sat in their box, mocking him; waterproof or not, nothing to burn so far up here. Nothing that could really be called a tree - all the brush was small and thorny, the other plant life cacti and succulents. He had pulled out the Maglite, the first aid kit and his red bandana. He'd also pulled out the newspaper, reasoning if he could find something to burn they could use the paper to start the fire.

Fire. Something so rudimentary, so elementary. Frickin' cavemen made fire. Hell, he had matches, for Pete's sake.

He took a glance over at Nick's still form, then wandered out to the edges of their shelter.

He scanned the area surrounding them slowly, eyes peeled for anything that might be flammable. The setting sun's long rays filtered weakly through the lingering cloud cover, turning even the smallest of pebbles into long dark shadows that looked deceptively like branches and he found his heart leap several times, let down each time he focused on the area and realized what he was seeing.

Shaking his head dejectedly he walked back over to sit down next to his friend when he remembered his tailbone would be less than pleased to be holding up his weight on the cold hard ground. So he paced. Like a caged wildcat. Back and forth the length of the shelf.

He shivered, the evening bringing the temperature down another few notches. He grabbed his arms across his chest and began rubbing at them, drawing back with a hiss as he rubbed at the area he'd forgotten was covered with a multitude of mini-spines.

"You plannin' on pacing all night?"

He looked back over to see Nick staring at him with a small smile.

"Nah. Just doin' some thinking. How you doin'?"

"Okay. You came back."

Warrick wandered over and leaned his back against the wall. "Yeah. Couldn't make it, bro. You were right."

"Was kinda hopin' I was wrong," Nick said with a chuckle.

"Yeah. Helluva thing to be right about, partner. I… I'm sorry I left you."

Nick rolled his head on his arm. "Nah, you had something you figured you had to do. You've never been a sit back and wait kinda guy, Rick."

Warrick chuffed out a laugh. "Ain't that the truth. I was so sure I could make it. All I got for my troubles was two arms full of cactus spines. And, uh … I broke my phone."

Nick lifted his head from his arm. His brow knit and Warrick braced for recriminations about the phone. "Can I see it?"

Warrick dug into his front pocket to pull out the broken cell, then heard Nick sigh with impatience.

"Not the phone, dummy. Your arm."

Warrick raised eyebrows, but dropped down to his haunches and offered his arm in front of Nick's face. Ice-cold fingers grabbed his wrist and pulled his arm closer so Nick could see it in the waning light.

"Not spines," Nick grunted out. "Glochidia. They're like little barbed bristly hairs. Lemme guess. Prickly Pear?"

"Yeah, probably. They hurt like a mother, 'sall I know."

Nick pushed his arm away. "Paraffin."

"Come again?"

"Paraffin's what you need to get rid of 'em. Melt it up, dunk your arm. When it hardens and you peel the wax off it takes most of the glochidia with it."

"What? Like a bikini wax?"

Nick snorted. "You'll have arms fit for the beach this summer." His joke was ruined by a shiver that wracked his whole body.

Warrick rose from his squat and went over to his meager pile of goodies. Finding his old red bandana he snatched it up and walked back over to lower himself gingerly down at Nick's side.

Nick didn't miss the painful expression on his face. "So you never said how you wound up with an armful of prickly pear. Or a broken phone."

"No. No, I didn't."

Nick sighed. "You fell."

His partner laughed ruefully. "Right on my ass."

"You hurt?"

"Just my pride. And yeah, my ass."

Nick smiled, waved a hand at his trussed up leg. " 'least you didn't break anything besides the phone."

"I think you've got enough goin' on for the both of us, bro. Here. Can you sit up for a second?"

Nick raised himself up shakily on his elbows looking curiously at the taller man.

"Here, lean against my knee," Warrick said as he moved over a bit to put his bent leg behind Nick's back. Warrick shook out the bandana with a flourish and a smile then reached towards Nick's head with it.

Nick reared his head back a bit. "What-?"

"My Grams was always at me about hats when I was little. You lose like half your body heat through your head. Figure at this point every little bit helps, right?"

"You gonna put me in a babushka?" Nick asked with a raised eyebrow.

"You never seen a brother in a 'do rag before? Quit jawin' and lemme get the damn thing on that thick head of yours."

Nick grunted but relented to having Warrick tie the handkerchief around and at the back of his head.

"Your Grams teach you how to knit an afghan outa cactus?"

"Hell, given enough time my Grams could make you a suit outa cactus fibers. That woman knows how to make do."

"Smart woman, your gramma. She was right about the hats, too. 'm warmer. Thanks." He offered up a grudging smile.

Nick patted Warrick on the knee then shoved off to lay himself back down, head planted on his arm once more, struggling to adjust his position so the new knot of fabric at the back of his neck sat comfortably.

"Nick, man, it can't be good for you layin' on the cold ground like that."

" 'cording to the book it's the best I can do," he replied, not looking at his partner.

Warrick picked up the booklet and scanned the same section Nick had read.

_Shock may be mitigated by elevation of the lower extremities above the head and if blood loss can be stopped. _May be.

"Yeah, a'ight," Warrick said, tossing the book back down on the ground where he didn't have to see the words taunting him further.

"We make a pretty sore looking pair, you know," Nick commented. "Three legs and three eyes between us."

The taller man poked gently at his cheekbone. "Yeah, what I wouldn't give for an ice pack and some aspirin."

"Got some Tylenol in my bag, I think," Nick said with a small wave of his hand towards the bags at his feet. He started to raise his legs in an attempt to give his partner access to the kit.

"No! No. leave it be. It's cool." _Man's leg is bust in two and he wants Me to take Tylenol…_

"Suit yourself. Nothing gained you sitting there in pain, though."

"It's just… distracting is all. We got about another hour of daylight, maybe. You need anything else while I can still see?"

"Nope. Just relax, man. Come morning when the sun finishes dryin' everything up we'll make our break …" He laughed as Warrick winced at his pun. "Yeah. Piss poor choice of words. Sorry. So, boss. You have one job left."

"Oh, yeah? What's that?"

"Entertain me. If I'm stuck layin flat on my back I'm gonna need you to keep me from goin outa my skull with boredom."

"Entertain you? What? You want a soft shuffle ? Maybe some Shakespeare?"

"No! No Shakespeare, man. I get enough of that from Grissom. Haven't you ever been on a road trip? You know…stuck in the car for hours on end, nothin' to look at, nothin' on the radio. Like that."

"Nope. No road trips. Grams' 63 Buick Skylark was a touchy beast to begin with and she usually tried to only take it to church or the grocery store. Went to college in Vegas, and the only trips I've ever taken have been plane flights."

"Now that makes me sad, bro. To know you've never enjoyed a trip out on the open road. You and me? We are takin' a road trip."

"Uh huh. Road trip. Okay. Where to, partner?"

"Dunno. South? Mexico? North to Seattle or maybe West, to LA or San Francisco. I've never seen either ocean. We could head to Florida."

"Yeah. Picture that. You, me, and thousands of UNLV students makin' a beeline for Daytona or Ft Lauderdale. On second thought…" Warrick said with a wide grin, "you may be on to something there, bro."

"That's what I'm talkin' about. Some place warm. With palm trees and white sand and college girls in bikinis. I'll probably feel like a dirty old man looking at 'em, but no harm, no foul, right?"

"Who you callin' old? I'm just hittin' my prime, bro."

"Hate to break it to ya, boss, but our college years were a looong time ago."

"Not _that_ long ago," Warrick huffed. "Although, that does look like a gray hair there on your head. Might be time to start looking into some Grecian Formula there, Pops."

Nick lifted his head off his arm to look at his partner with disbelief, smiling as he realized he'd been had as he saw the triumphant grin on the taller man's face.

"Ha. Ha. Jab all you want cuz your hairline's moving back a bit."

"A'ight. Conversation ends there," Warrick said, a hand rising briefly to his forehead then dropping again quickly. His eye caught the newspaper and he snatched it up.

"How about some local news? Looks like Councilman Tavares got himself into some hot water. A_t a press conference today, Tavares said he had gone on a 'fact finding' mission to Cabo San Lucas, but had no idea who the blonde woman was, suggesting that his opponent in the upcoming election…"_

* * *

… _and bake at 450 degrees for four hours. Serves eight."_

The sun had gone down well over an hour before, and Warrick had the Maglite trained on the newspaper page. "That's Section C done, bro. Nothing left but the betting pages and some crap like the funnies and crossword puzzle."

Nick roused from his position where he still lay on the ground, switching arms as they each fell asleep the only movement but for shivering the man had made for the last two hours.

"Hey. Funnies ain't crap. They're like the dessert at the end of the paper."

"Man, comics suck nowadays. Far Side's gone. Calvin and Hobbes, gone. No more Bloom County. Even Funky Winkerbean has gotten lame."

"Still some good ones."

"Oh yeah? Take this one. Family Circus. Kid's pointing' a TV remote at his cryin' little brother, asking his mama why the mute button's not working on PJ?"

"That's Jeffy. He's a hoot. I like the ones where Billy rambles all over the neighborhood when he's supposed to go straight home."

"A hoot… yeah. Must be a white folks thing."

"It's comforting, man. The kids in the comics never grow up."

"How real is that? Fifty years of drawin' something, you think the artist would get tired of drawing big white balloon heads all the time."

"Reality's not the point, Rick. You go to them because they'll always be the same. Dagwood will always eat sandwiches, Marmaduke will always steal his owner's chair, Beetle Bailey will always piss off the Sarge, and the tree will always eat Charlie Brown's kite. And thus, the universe keeps rotating."

"Hunh. Guess we'll hafta agree to disagree on that one. You up for the crossword?"

"Pencil in my bag…"

"No, no. I can fill it in just fine in my head."

"I need a break anyways, Rick. I don't think I can take another minute layin' here, truthfully."

"A'ight…" Warrick said dubiously, groaning as he rose from his seated position on the ground. Pain lanced from his coccyx down both legs to join the throbbing in his cheek.

"Grams always said sittin' on the cold ground'd give you piles."

"What the hell are they?"

"You don't wanna know, bro. But she might be right about that, too," he said with another groan and a rub at the small of his back. "Think you were right. We are gettin' old."


	7. The Great Gatsby and a Goshawk

It took a full ten minutes to get Nick to his foot and the second he was upright his leg folded under him and threatened to undo all their work. A quick grab by a strong arm around his waist kept him vertical, but only barely as he started tick-tocking back and forth like a metronome.

He hopped back a few steps and grabbed a section of wall, leaning against it heavily, bad leg barely off the ground, the weight of the splinting pulling on the break.

A wave of nausea broke over him and he executed a move of pure gymnastic genius, folding himself in half like a jackknife, hands braced on the wall behind him as his head fell to practically hit his knees. He let out a single long groan of mixed discomfort and pain, then rose back up straight, practically slamming himself back against the canyon face.

A barrage of expletives left his mouth, half mumbled but clear enough to make out their ferocity and obscenity.

Warrick stood by his side like a spotter, waiting to see if his partner was going to take a header. After watching his partner fold himself in half like a tortilla a few more times, each episode ending in Nick almost snapping straight back up, the curses flowing freely, he reached out a tentative hand and grabbed Nick by the shoulder.

"Bro, if you need to --"

"No. Nooooooo," Nick moaned as he folded again. This time when he stood back up he finally looked at his friend. "Not puking," he ground out. "Hurts too much."

He fell back again against the mountainside, his face a picture of distress that morphed to anger.

"Should be doin' better than this."

"What? You thought a couple hours on your back was gonna make it all go away, Nick?"

"Book said…"

"Book said what? If I remember the book says seek immediate attention. The book says you're supposed to be in a freaking hospital. It also says prepare for fucking CPR! So if you're still standing and have to suffer through a little sickness, bro, consider the alternative. Now c'mon. Let's get you back down."

Nick angrily waved off Warrick's help and bent at the knee, sliding down the wall, falling the last foot down, landing jarringly on his rump, his bad leg slapping the shelf floor causing him to suck in a breath with a hiss.

"Tired of layin' on the floor," he grumbled. "Its frickin' cold and my arms are going to sleep. And my back is never gonna be right after this."

"Thought layin' on a firm surface was supposed to be good for your back," Warrick tried jabbing.

Nick gave him a look that was the equivalent of flipping him the bird, then sighed, lowering his forehead to his bent knee with a sigh.

"Sorry. 's just…this sucks, man."

"That, my friend, is the understatement of the century," Warrick said as he slid down to join his friend, wincing himself as his sore ass hit the floor. "Only took you this long to realize how bad this sucks, bro?"

"Yeah, it's finally dawning on me," he muttered to his knee. "You may as well grab the pencil before I assume the position again."

"You up for the puzzle?"

"Last I checked my brain's not connected to my leg. 'sides, you have anything else in mind? Don't think I'd be much fun for charades."

"Ookay…if you say so…" Not even bothering to climb back to his feet the taller man crawled over to the backpacks, digging into Nick's for the pencil, plumping the cases back up into a pile for Nick's feet, and grabbing the first aid kit on his way back.

He popped the lid on the old white box and fished out a small foil wrapped packet of Tylenol. Miming opening the pills and pointing at his partner, Nick replied with an upraised hand. "Nah. Can't imagine a little Tylenol's gonna do me a lick of good. You take 'em."

Warrick gave him a 'suit yourself' look and stuffed the medication into his shirt pocket.

"A'ight, bro. Let's get you settled back down for the night."

"I'm not a cranky toddler, Rick," he said with a roll of his eyes.

"Maybe not a toddler, bro, but cranky?"

"Ha ha," he said with a glare, but began scooching himself back out flat on the floor.

"Hold up, hold up," Warrick said shortly, lowering himself gingerly back down to support his back against the wall. "Here," he said, scooting closer to where Nick balanced in a vee shape. "Rest your head on my legs."

Nick gave him doubtful look. "Thanks anyway, man, but I'll pass. Besides, you got skinny legs. Your shins'll be worse than the floor."

"Then use my upper legs. Not much more meat but…"

Nick raised an eyebrow. "You want me to lay my head in your lap, bro?" he asked with a chuckle.

Warrick sighed in exasperation. "Look- you said yourself the floor is cold. Be better for you. Besides, I'm freezing too. Case you hadn't noticed I got re-soaked on my little jaunt to get you help."

Nick appeared to consider for a moment, then rolled his eyes and scooted a few inches closer and tentatively laid his head as close to his partner's knee as he could.

"We go to our graves with this, bro," he said as he jostled for a comfortable position.

"I'm the one with a dude's head in my lap. Just chill. And, uh, stop wiggling."

Nick pale face blushed red and he immediately stilled. Then burst into laughter, soon joined by his partner.

* * *

"…eight letters, and we have a double 'r'. Friend of Gatsby."

"I read that in college lit. Think the guys' name is Carraway."

The pencil squeaked on the newsprint as Warrick filled in the spaces. "Fits. Damn! You remember that?"

"His first name was Nick. Stuck with me."

"First First Lady of the 20th century."

"No frickin' clue," Nick mumbled. "Next."

"No, no wait. Lessee, who was president in 1900?"

"Weren't all the presidents in aught years killed or something'?"

"Yeah! Some curse. I think it's years divisible by 20."

A long pause. "...1900 is."

"A'ight... um, presidents who've been shot" – he snapped his fingers. "Got it! McKinley!"

"Mmm hmm," Nick sighed noncommittally. "Now you just gotta know his wife's name."

"Ah, shit. Yeah. A'ight next one. Here you go, one for you, Bird Boy. Genus of the red-tailed hawk... Nick? You still with me?"

"Ahum...yeah...what?"

"Genus of the red-tailed hawk."

"Buteo."

"Hunh. Figures you'd know that one. How's that spelled? Nick?"

No answer but for light snoring. Warrick nodded, dropping the pencil and paper off to the side and closing his eyes. "Sounds good, bro." He settled his head back against the canyon wall and closed his eyes.

* * *

"Nicky, this is Mr. Grüner. Jacob, this is my son, Nicholas."

"Pleased to meet you, sir." Small grubby hand reaches out to be engulfed in the man's calloused bear paw. _What kind of name is Yacub?_

"Pleased to meet you as vell, Nicky. Your papa tells me you would like to see my birds, yes?"

"Yes, please." Hand shoves back into Toughskins pocket. Favorite pair, forest green, knees not too badly worn.

"_Zehr gut_. You two gentlemen come this vay. I have many birds you vill like, Nicky."

A glance up for confirmation from Dad, white-toed sneakers scuff in the dust following behind the flannel covered bear man.

Large, freshly-painted barn. Smell of must and bird droppings. Chickens mill around in random circles, beaks pecking for leftover corn kernels. They squawk and scramble as they pass, reforming in their random groups in the wake of the three humans.

A dozen or so large wood and wire cages, most of them empty. The last three contain avian guests. The first is a red-tailed hawk. Razor sharp pointy beak snaps open and shut, small dark eyes follow the three as they walk past the cage.

Stopping in front of the cage. A small chubby white finger extends towards the wire - so close to touching the soft-looking red feathers.

"Nicky!" Dad's hand grabs his when he is mere inches from the cage. Mr. Grüner steps up, small smile on his huge face. "She is beautiful, isn't she, Nicky? Vould you like to see her?"

Another look at Dad, face easing out of anger (and fear?) and a gruff nod. "Yes, please, Mr. Grüner." Hand is released from Dad's grasp and shoved back into his pocket.

"This girl, she is still vild, yes? I vill take her out, but you mustn't touch her."

Quick fervent head shake. "No, sir."

Mr. Grüner slips on a heavy leather glove, opens the cage. The hawk backs up, head turning quickly, small dark eye flicking between the man and the boy. The glove nudges the raptor's taloned toes digging into the wooden perch. The talons give reluctantly at first, then ease onto the man's hand. He eases the bird out, a minimum of fuss, a single annoyed beating of long wings once the hawk is free kicks up the dust from the barn floor.

"Mr. Galvez brought her in to me. He saw her from his truck out on the highvay. She had broken ving. But she is almost better now. Soon she vill be ready to go home."

"What's her name, sir?"

"No name, Nicky. No, she is a creature of the vild, not a pet. A creature this beautiful should not be in a cage. She should be out there, flying. And soon she will be, yes?"

"Yes, sir." The hand struggles in the pocket, straining to reach out and stroke the hawk's feathers, to feel the rough skin on her legs.

The men exchange smiles. "Come. I show you a friend. You vill like him."

The hawk is returned to her roost with a singular ear-piecing shriek. Mr. Grüner chuckles. "_Sie erhalten Ihre Maus, meine Königin," _he croons to the bird. The hawk darts a glance at the man.

"She understood you, Mr. Grüner! What did you say to her?"

"I told her I vould be giving her her mouse soon, Nicky. She understands my German, especially ven I tell her food is coming." A low growly laugh emanates from deep within the barrel chest.

"Come. Ve see my friend now, yes?"

A few long strides followed as quickly as short legs will take him. They stop in front of the last cage. Inside is the most beautiful bird. Another raptor. Striking markings of black and charcoal against a bluish-gray background and a snowy white chest. The head markings are of the deepest black and make the bird look as though he is wearing a mask and cap.

"_Alo, mein Junge. Dieses ist ein Freund, sein Name ist Nicky." _The man clucked and cooed over the bird as he put his hand in the cage, the bird sidestepping easily into the outstretched glove.

"Nicky, this is my friend, Netzie. Netzie is a goshawk. Is short for goose hawk, because he has those bars on his face like a goose. _Netz_ is the Hebrew word for hawk, so I thought it a _gut_ name, yes?" Another low, slow rumbling from within the cavernous chest that emerged as an almost silent chuckle.

"Yes, sir." The hand is now digging through the thin cotton fabric in the pocket to dig fitfully into the flesh of his thigh, fighting against the urge to reach out.

"Why does he get a name, Mr. Grüner?" A quick look at Dad to make sure the question is allowed.

"Netzie und I have a very long history together, Nicky. Back in Germany, before the var, I vas a falconer. Do you know vat that is?"

Quick head shake, no.

"My family raised these birds to help us on our farm. They vere used to hunt rabbits und squirrels, that my family could eat. My papa did it before me, und his papa did it before him. Ven I get to America, I find Netzie as a babe. I bring him home and I train him, mit a tether und a hood. After many years, Netzie no longer needs the hood or the tether. Now ve are just friends, yes?"

"Yes, sir. Does Netzie still hunt?"

"Ach, Netzie is getting old, like me. But he still likes to make his rounds." Another rumbly chuckle. "He still brings me back the occasional rabbit, but I alvays let him eat it. I eat beef now, like a real Texan!" The bird shuffles uneasily on his arm as the man quivers with barely contained laughter.

"Shh, shh, Netzie. I'm sorry, boy. Just relax…sh sh sh…" He soothes the bird's ruffled feathers, but the bird won't settle. The reason is soon clear as an aged German shepherd pads in to butt its head against the man's hip.

"Ach, no vonder. Netzie! It's only Fritz. So jealous, he is, tcha!"

A bear paw descends to caress the dog's cheek, smushing its head against him. Calloused fingers dig into a favorite spot behind the dog's ear and a tongue like a slice of bologna emerges as the shepherd pants out its pleasure.

"Here, Nicky. Vy don't you take Netzie while I go get Fritz some vater, yes?"

Eyes open wide as dinner plates and no glance at Dad in case he's gonna say no and that would ruin _everything_ because the bird is being handed to him, two steps of the taloned claws and they are on his arm, the hawk much heavier than expected but the arm is out, sweat breaking out on his forehead at the strain, and the talons break through the sleeve of his denim jacket and there's probably blood being drawn but the raptor is THERE, on his arm and he is inches from the small dark eye and the glimmering hooked beak, and now the other hand can't control itself in his pocket anymore and a finger reaches out to stroke the soft chest feathers.

Silky smooth, warm, heart beating so rapidly beneath his fingertips, and he runs a knuckle joint down the chest and over the wings, feeling the muscles trembling just under the surface.

Dad behind him and he risks a quick look, face spreading into a shit-eating grin as he sees his father looking warmly at him.

Dad bends his face to meet his ear. "You got him, Pancho? He looks pretty heavy."

"Got him, Cisco. Isn't he neat?" No other words in his child mind for how spectacular, how amazing and majestic the creature is.

The bear man is back. "Ah, I see you and Netzie are making friends, yes? Maybe you come out and help me mit my birds again, Nicky?"

"Yes, sir. I… I'd like that." Pipe cleaner arm is now shaking in earnest as he struggles to hold the bird up, the hawk disturbed at the tenuousness of his perch, it sidles back and forth, fluffing up its wings and letting out a raucous screech.

"Ach, he is so touchy, that one. Maybe it's time I put him back, Nicky. But you will visit him again, yes?"

The horny paw stretches forward to take the bird, the sleeve of Mr. Grüner's quilted plaid flannel shirt pulls up to show a faded blue tattoo. Looks like numbers.

"What's that, Mr. Grüner?" Grubby fingers reach for the marking, Dad's hand once again snatching his out of midair and holding it firmly.

"Ach, don't vorry, Bill. I vill show the boy." A paw pushes back the sleeve to show the whole series of inked numbers.

"Were you a sailor, Mr. Grüner?"

A surprised look passes over the huge ruddy face. "No, Nicky. Vy?"

"Because my sister said only sailors get tattoos." _Didn't mention she actually said drunken sailors._

The man drops his arms suddenly, the goshawk fluttering into the air with another pissed off sounding squawk.

A darted glance at his father shows a reddened angry (embarrassed?) face. Worried eyes dart back to the bear man as he grasps his knees as if in pain until a loud growly laugh emerges and he rises to bend back and laugh at the barn rafters.

Dad's hand grabs his upper arm firmly; panic sets in. White-toed sneakers shuffle fretfully in the dust.

Mr. Grüner raises a hand to wipe a tear from the corner of his eye, then comes over in two huge strides to wrap arms like steel bands around him in a warm, not too painful hug.

Mr. Grüner sinks to one knee to look him in the eye. "You are funny boy, Nicky. Thank you. I tell you vere I get this, yes?"

Risking only head movement, a jerky nod.

"Back in the var, there vere bad men. And they took me und my family away from our farm and put us in a bad place. Me, und my vife, und my children, ve all get these tattoos in the bad place, because there ver many, many people there like us. And the bad men marked us to help keep track of us, yes?"

Another head jerk, Dad's hand tightening on his shoulder.

"My daughter, Miriam, up in the house, yes, und I got out because _gut_ men, like your Grandpa, came and rescued us. And ve come to America, vere the _gut_ men ver. Und I found Netzie, but I no longer had a son to share Netzie vith. Und as the years passed, I realized that I took Netzie from his home, from his family, and I kept him here, on a tether. So I promised myself, no more falconry. For Netzie, it is too late. He vould not make it on his own any more. Now, I help birds ven they are sick or hurt, but I alvays let them go ven they are better, so they can go back to their families, yes?"

"Yes, sir." Tremble in his voice.

"Nicky, there vill always be bad men out there, but there vill always be _gut_ men, like your papa, around to make things right. Don't ever forget that, yes?"

"No, sir."

"_Gut. Komm mal her, Fritzele! Ach, mein Hündele." _The shepherd is back, water dripping from its still dangling pink bologna tongue and flews. Meaty hands grab the dog's face as the man plants a kiss on the top of its muzzle.

The goshawk has caught sight of the dog's return and eyes it up warily. Another screech and it crosses the threshold of the barn into the bright Texan sunlight. A flap of its beautiful blue gray wings and a small tornado of dust stirs up as it takes off into the afternoon sky.

Eyes follow the bird in its flight and white-toed sneakers lift off from the barn floor as he rises to follow the raptor, arms outstretched, wind already ruffling the hair on his forehead.

A hand grabs his arm, _no, Dad, I'm flying with the hawk, I'll be back in time for lunch, I swear, just let me go--_

_Nicky!_

_Please, Dad- just--_

"Nicky!"

Green eyes are staring down at him, single eyebrow arched over one of them.

"Not your dad, bro. Sorry, but it's morning. And if you don't let me up soon… let's just say it would be a bad thing."


	8. He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother

It took a few minutes of blinking and staring to pull himself from the remnants of the dream. The coming down from the high of the freedom he felt as his feet left the ground was crushing as weight returned to his limbs, the ache returned to his ribs, and the nausea returned to his stomach. As he went to lift his head his frustration and regret was channeled into a single long drawn out groan.

Warrick's toes were wiggling in earnest, the tops of his boots waving side to side, the motion carried up his long limbs so Nick could feel the tightening of muscles under his head. Another sigh of frustration as he realized how disappointed he was that he didn't feel the same way.

Energy expended that he didn't think he had left, he somehow managed to get himself sitting upright, the position awkward as his feet were still propped up high on the backpacks. Warrick immediately pulled his knees up and began rubbing at his calves.

"Damn, you got a heavy head, bro. Put my legs to sleep."

Nick mumbled a sorry he only half meant as he dug his fingers into the nape of his knotted up neck.

"Still cranky I see. How you feelin'?"

He felt his lip curling involuntarily and a snarky reply was barely held back as he looked over at his partner with a 'how the hell do you think I feel?' look. He tamed his response to, "I'll take that as a rhetorical question," especially after getting a good luck at the taller man's face. The swelling on his cheekbone had gotten worse overnight. Redder, softer looking. Rawer. The puffiness had spread to above his eye making his eyebrow and forehead protrude like he was half Neanderthal.

Further observation had his partner rubbing at his arm, fingers jerking back with a hiss each time but soon returning to rub gently at his skin.

Nick shoved his chin at Warrick. "It's the glochidia. They get in under your skin and drive you crazy. Can't decide if they hurt more or itch more."

The tall man nodded. "Good description. You learn the hard way?"

"Couldn't wear pants for a week," was his reply along with a rueful smile. "Spent every waking minute in a tub of oatmeal."

"Guess I'm glad I was wearin' jeans then. Not sure I wanna know…"

"Her name was Jenny… something Italian. From Jersey. No- _Lawn Guyland. _Was like dating someone from the Sopranos. She'd never seen anything of Texas but the college campus. Figured as a Native Son I'd do the honors."

"Yeah, I'll bet."

With his own groan that practically shook the mountain Warrick climbed slowly, awkwardly, painfully to his feet. "Lemme go take care of business and come back to help you. You need to uh…?" Finger pointing over to the edge.

Not even bothering to hide his disappointment Nick shook his head shortly.

Warrick acknowledged his answer with a short nod of his own and limped his way over to the edge.

Nick grabbed his good leg in his hands and lifted it off the piled backpacks with a bit back groan. When it came time to lift the bad leg off no amount of effort was able to keep his jaws clenched together and he felt a cry rip from his throat at the movement.

By the time he got his breathing under control and had swallowed back the bile that had risen in his throat he felt his partner back at his side, hands gently checking the handkerchief bandage. A few minutes later he heard Warrick sit back on his heels with a sigh.

"Here."

Nick looked up to see the taller man extending a hand to him and he stared at it. Dumbly holding his own hand out he took what was offered. A green Lifesaver and the package of Tylenol, the corner of the foil now ripped open.

"What's this? Breakfast?" he grunted.

"The candy's to get some spit goin' in your mouth so you can swallow the pills. Your leg feels hot, bro."

"Hate the green ones," Nick mumbled but dropped the sweet circle on his tongue and worked it around, rubbing free the coating that had formed between puking and sleeping on his back. He knew he snored on his back, and he only hoped Rick had managed to sleep through all the noise.

Maybe his leg felt warm, but the rest of his body felt like he'd slept on an ice floe all night. Stiff, sore, cold sunk into the marrow of his bones. If he closed his eyes he could just barely feel the balmy Texas sun warming away the chill, smell the musty dusty barn…

An abrupt sound from above brought him out of his reverie. Warrick was rubbing the toe of his boot into the sandy shelf, looking like he wanted to say something, the only sound coming from him an odd throat clearing.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm up. I'm up. How's the trail look?"

"Looks pretty dry from here. A few muddy parts but the sun is already baking it away. You know… I know you want to come with me, Nick, but… I just really don't see how you're planning on making it down on your own."

"I played the last four innings of a ball game with a broken ankle, bro. I can play through this too." It had hurt like a mother the whole time, and the orthopod blasted him for a full twenty minutes in the ER, his mother standing white-lipped next to him as the possibility of needing pins was discussed over his ankle swollen to the size of a picnic ham. No pins, but a to-the-knee cast and he was done for the season. Ironically, the game hadn't even been that important, and his coach was actually more pissed at him for ruining himself for the rest of their games. You'd think coaching guys from Texas that he woulda understood how stubborn they could grow 'em there.

Stubborn, yes. But it was more than being obstinate, or perversely committed to hauling his broken carcass down the mountainside. While wild horses wouldn't have dragged the real reason out of him, Nick knew he was scared shitless of being left alone on the mountain while infection crept up his veins or he succumbed to shock or bled out.

If his partner wanted to see him as just being mule-headed, he could live with that.

"Gimme a hand up." His hand thrust forward, hanging in mid-air, waiting for Warrick to take it. When the taller man hesitated he swore under his breath, then planted both hands on the shelf and pushed himself up, dragging the heel of his bad leg along the ground, struggling to get his good foot under him. Just when he thought he was going to be forced to drop back down and attack it a different way he felt strong hands under his armpits and with Warrick's aid was hoisted to his foot. The hands stayed there while he wavered a bit.

The weightlessness he had yearned for after his dream was there. Problem was, it was in his head, and only his head. His body was cement, his arteries filled with lead, an immovable bulk of entropy. His head was a helium balloon, tethered to his body by a thin ribbon that let his head bobble and bump/pull against its string. He found his hands fighting gravity as he raised them to his head attempting to hold it in place. Eyes squinched shut against the spinning canyon, he allowed himself to trust in those hands holding him firm as he took several deep breaths, the acidic sugar of the candy sharp in his throat as it met bile irritated tissue.

With a light moan he dropped his heavy arms and righted himself, pulling away from Warrick, but maintaining a grip on his sleeve in order to keep his balance. He opened his eyes and the shelf stayed horizontal and he stayed vertical and all was temporarily okay in the world.

"This is such a bad idea," he heard his friend mutter.

He cuffed his partner lightly with his free hand and put on a game smile. "Just dizzy. Like waking up after sleeping fourteen hours."

"Four-- you can sleep fourteen hours?"

"Hell, yeah. After a couple double shifts in a row, throw a triple in there like we get sometimes, my bod doesn't leave my bed 'til it's time to go to work the next night."

Warrick shook his head impressed. "Haven't been able to sleep like that since college. And that was usually weekends after working all week, school all day, partying all night."

"Yeah. I miss that too," Nick said with a laugh. "I'm telling you, bro. You and me, next spring break…"

"Yeah, yeah. The only trip I've got on my mind right now is off this damn mountain. So, you got a system figured out or are you planning on hoppin' down on one foot the whole way?"

"Told ya. Three-legged race. C'mon. It'll be fun- just picture yourself back at camp."

"Never went to camp. 'Less you count the one year they rounded up all the poor urban kids from the Boys Club and took us all out to Lake Mead. Bunch of nascent thugs and bangers and me, eating stale sandwiches and staring at the white folks playing tetherball in their khaki cargo shorts and polos. Was ridiculous, man."

"Now that's just sad, bro."

"Yeah, yeah, pity party later. Whatcha got in mind?"

* * *

What Nick had in mind may have worked for a picnic of drunken fools tying their legs together and laughing as they tumbled over onto soft grass, but in operation a few thousand miles up on rough and rocky terrain… not so much.

What started out as Nick thinking to bind his bad leg to Warrick's and have the two men actually walk down on three began okay. Nick grit his teeth and with the aid of his partner as a crutch managed to make it down several hundred feet before collapsing in agony and bringing Warrick, of course, down with him.

After giving Nick a breather, or more appropriately, a gasper, Warrick undid the cloth bindings (his long sleeves sacrificed now that the heat of the morning was growing) from around their legs.

He hauled Nick to his feet and with an arm around his friend's waist and Nick's arm slung around his shoulder he supported Nick while he walk-hopped for another few hundred feet. Actually, it was more like walk-hop a few feet. Stop. Wait. Walk-hop. Stop. Wait. At this rate it would take them until the next night to get to the bottom.

And Nick didn't look like he had 'til that night. Sweat poured from him in rivulets, but the air wasn't that warm yet. The down coat had been doffed, shoved back in Nick's bag, currently slung with his own over Warrick's back. Now shirtless and coatless, Nick's flesh was pale and waxen, covered in a sheen of perspiration, and accented horribly with dark bruising covering the whole side he'd landed on; hip to shoulder.

The Texan had started out their descent in good spirits, game face on, joking and laughing. Not any more. Now it was all he could do to breathe through the pain the constant jarring of his leg was causing. And the way his eyes were pinwheeling in their sockets and the shivers that were wracking his body despite the growing heat of the new morning had Warrick tightening his grasp around his waist, his arm slipping in the sweat that gathered at Nick's belt line.

A missed step, his ankle twisting briefly on loose rock, and Warrick stumbled, Nick's arm slipping from his shoulder as he began to slump to the ground. "Nope, not gonna happen," he mumbled to himself more than anything as he wrapped a hand around Nick's wrist and heaved him back upright.

The bottom of Nick's pant leg was now shiny with jarred loose blood loss, the thick red fluid puddling on top of the leather boot.

Warrick renewed his efforts at the sight, eyes flicking back and forth from the ground immediately in front of him to the canyon floor, closer now but yet so fucking far away, anywhere but at the blood trail they were leaving or Nick's alternately scarily lax and screwed up face.

Like the old car salesman patter used to go, _Drive it in, haul it in, drag it in, tow it in, we'll give you $500 bucks for your piece of shit_, or words to that effect, and that's what Warrick was gonna do. Bodily haul Nick down to the truck if that's what it took.

The taller man was now sweating like a stuck pig himself with the effort of keeping both men on their feet. He stopped on a flat open shelf and eased Nick off of his shoulder, waiting a second to see if Nick's balance was good enough to stand on his own. The Texan limped a few feet away and stood, wavering a bit, but held his own.

Warrick took the opportunity to bring the tail of his shirt up to his face and wipe away the salty perspiration from his eyes.

When done he dropped the material and blinked a few times, clearing his vision, then turned to see Nick taking a step closer to the edge.

He held his breath, stunned, scared shitless, watching as his best friend wobbled a thousand feet up on the precipice. "Nick?" He almost whispered it, afraid of startling his friend.

The injured man turned his head, glassy eyes blinking rapidly, swaying slightly like a blade of grass in the wind, though not a hint of breeze lightened the air.

"You ever wish you could fly?"

The words turned Warrick's overheated blood to icy slush.

"Oh, _Hell_, no!" Without a second thought, Warrick took two long strides over, muscle memory taking over as he flashed back to the days in college when he'd played pick up football, leaning over, shoulder planted in Nick's midsection as if tackling him, _and Jesus, wasn't that just what he was doing, trying to keep him from the Eternal End Zone? _bending at the knees as he lifted the shorter man up in the air to haul him up over one shoulder.

Nick never made a word of objection, which was even more disturbing, Warrick figuring he would let loose a string of obscenities along with his protestations. He shifted his load with a grunt, shoulders rolling to resituate the bags on his back and his passenger, and headed back down the path. He tried not to notice the blood dripping from the boot now hanging in front of him.

* * *

Morning had given way to late afternoon by the now blazing sun high above. A giant golden sphere of fire, unfettered by even a single wisp of cloud cover, it turned Warrick's view of their surroundings wavy with heat.

His boot finally landed on the canyon floor and all he wanted to do was whoop with joy and share well-earned high fives with his buddy, but Nick hadn't done much more than moan and mumble, his head lolling against Warrick's back.

The truck. He could see the truck now. Like a hulking black gas-guzzling beacon of hope.

His partner may have looked lean, but he swore the man had lead in his veins. "You weigh a freakin' ton, bro," he huffed to himself, he thought, then heard from behind him the muffled and mumbled but still clear reply, "Muscle weighs more than fat."

"You okay back there? Almost there, bro, almost there."

"Then put me down. Tired of starin' at your non-existent ass."

"Hey! I paid good money for these jeans; supposed to make me look like I _have_ an ass."

"Get your money back. And put me down."

"I'll be dumping your ungrateful ass in just a minute. Just hang on there."

"Ha ha. Very funny."

Warrick smiled briefly, glad to hear his partner had some of his faculties back. He could feel Nick beginning to move uncomfortably on his shoulder, shifting his weight, knocking the taller man off balance. He made it to the truck just in time to slide Nick off his shoulder, the Texan stumbling a few feet away to bend at the waist and heave painfully. Nothing came up but bile and he watched as Nick stood back up, balanced precariously on one leg, spitting repeatedly, then wiping his wrist across his mouth.

A few hops and Nick leaned against the truck, hissing and drawing back in pain as his flesh touched the black metal. His thoughts of supporting himself on the vehicle thwarted he eased himself down to the ground to fall against a tire.

"Any reason you ain't gotten this thing goin' yet?" he asked with a small smile, hooking a thumb at the truck behind him.

Warrick rolled his eyes, not even bothering with a comeback, and dug his hand into his pocket.

The pocket that had gotten torn off during his fall into the prickly pear.

The pocket that no longer was attached to his four hundred dollar jeans.

And no longer contained the keys to the truck.


	9. Next Time We Get Onstar

Panic had his hands flying, patting down the remaining pockets of his jeans, the small shirt pocket on his chest. All empty but for a half eaten roll of Lifesavers and the silver strip from the Tylenol package he'd opened earlier.

His eyes wandered over the face of the canyon wall, tracing the path he thought they had taken. There was no way in hell he'd ever pick out the particular copse of cacti he'd crash-landed in.

His heart was pounding, his stomach twisting in knots as he cast a glance at his partner, eyes closed, head resting against the quarter panel of the truck. How was he gonna tell him he'd lost the keys? Lost the chance to get them home, lost the chance to get Nick the help he needed so badly.

His head was busy scrambling for an answer, fumbling, hell flailing now, weighing his choices: go back up and look for the keys or start walking back towards the highway. He was so consumed with his thoughts that it took a minute to realize his name was being called.

"Rick!"

His head shot up to see Nick staring at him with concern.

"What's goin on, bro?"

"I… I…"

"Whatsa matter?"

The lanky man took a deeeep breath and closed his eyes, not wanting to see the expression on his partner's face. "I lost the fucking keys."

"You wha-? 'S not funny, man."

He opened his eyes and gazed seriously at his friend. "It's no joke, Nick. They were in this pocket," he said, gesturing at the torn flap of fabric remaining at his hip. "I…I think I can figure out where I lost 'em …"

"In one of a hundred patches of cactus?" Nick shook his head. He let loose a long sigh and kneaded his hands into the thigh of his bad leg as if it was just a bad muscle cramp he could work out.

"Looks like we try an' hotwire it."

"Look, man, I may have grown up black and underprivileged, but I don't know jack about hotwiring a car."

Nick looked at him like he was crazy, then barked out a short pain-filled laugh. "I do."

"White bread judge's son knows how to steal a car?"

"Not cuz of any misspent youth, bro. My brother had a '67 Impala that he bought with his first paycheck. Thought Cisco was gonna bust a nut when he brought it home. Three weeks after he bought it the ignition went. He didn't have the money to fix it up, and he sure as hell wasn't gonna let our dad get any pleasure outa bein' right, so he bypassed the ignition to get it to start. I remember how he did it. "

"Boy Scout and jacker of cars. You never cease to amaze me, bro. Wait… not gonna work…" his jubilance quickly dampened. "I flipped the fuckin' alarm on it before we left. Kill switch'll kick on and the engine won't start."

"Gotta get ridda the alarm first then. C'mon, Rick- we work on cars everyday. Who's better to do this than us?"

"Us?" Warrick raised an eyebrow at his half slumped over partner.

"Yeah, maybe I can just supervise, huh? Can probably manage passin' ya some tools."

"This'd be a lot easier if we had a rolling board."

"It'd be a lot easier a lot of different ways, bro," Nick coughed out as he began dragging himself to the front of the truck. "You can use my pocket knife, 's in my bag. 'S got like a screwdriver 'n shit."

Half an hour later Warrick pulled himself out from under the truck, grease smeared across his forehead, Nick's Leatherman tool in hand.

"Hey, man, hand me the Maglite would ya? Nick?"

His partner didn't answer, his head tipped back to lean against the fender, eyes riveted on a sky so bright it went beyond blue to an almost blinding incandescent light bulb yellow. A mile or more up a single dark dot soared in lazy circles, a raptor of some kind, reveling in the thermal air swells.

"What is it with you an' birds, bro?" Warrick half asked himself, a hand lightly jiggling the injured man's shoulder to bring his attention around. The flesh under his hand was hot but remarkably free of sweat.

"Nick, c'mon, man," he said in a quiet but firm voice. "Need you stay with me just a little longer."

Nick's head bobbled a bit, then slowly turned, looking at Warrick like he had just entered the room, with a smile of recognition and surprise. His eyes had gone from glassy to almost flat looking, his lids only scraping slowly shut over drying corneas once or twice a minute.

Warrick gave him a weak smile in return. "Yeah, hey, bro - still here. C'mon- almost got this sucker. I need the flashlight, then you gotta tell me how to wire up the car."

Nick struggled to sit up straighter, pinching the bridge of his nose then rubbing at his eyes with thumb and forefinger. "Yeah, yeah," he mumbled, clearing his throat. His other hand scrambled blindly about on the desert floor, fingers wrapping around the flashlight, lifting it and handing it over, his hand shaking like the small tool weighed twenty pounds.

The taller man took the light and gave another attempt at a more reassuring smile that never made it to his eyes and hauled himself back underneath the truck.

A few minutes later he pulled himself back out and up with a loud groan, wiping his hands off on his jeans.

"Think I got it all. The rest I gotta do from the inside."

"Gotta get into the truck," Nick grunted out in agreement. He kept shaking his head as if to knock loose the cobwebs and Warrick noticed him digging his ruined nail into his palm again. He sighed as he realized Nick was using the pain to clear his head.

He cast his eye on the ground around them, alighting on a rock the size of a cantaloupe, and he jogged over to heft it into his hand. He removed the sad remnants of his shirt, hissing as the fabric caught on the nearly microscopic cactus spines still embedded in his arms, and again as he wrapped the cloth around his hand, winding it halfway up his forearm.

He returned to the Denali's driver side and glanced down at his partner.

"Motor pool's gonna have my ass for this."

" 'Stenuating circumstances, bro." The words came out sounding like they had twice the sibilants as normal.

"Yeah, ain't that the truth. Well, we'll know if this worked I guess…" and he pulled his cocooned arm back and struck the window, safety glass shattering and showering little blue cubes all over the driver seat.

He held his breath waiting for the truck to explode in blaring noise and flashing lights, but it never happened. He quickly reached in the now open window, popped the lock and threw the door open. Swiping away the shards of glass as best he could, he wriggled his body between the seat and the gas and brake pedals.

"Okay," he yelled, his voice muffled under the dashboard. "What do I do first?"

"You gotta disconnect the ignition -- expose th' rotation switch."

The black truck had been sitting in the desert sun for hours and was roughly the temperature of nuclear fusion inside. Add to that the fact that he was forced to put his weight on his probably broken tailbone and kept catching his increasingly sore and itchy arms on the carpeting and seat fabric _and _little diamonds of glass were mining their way through his $400 jeans and it left his patience pretty much non-existent.

"You mind being a bit more specific?" he bit out.

"Take the rock. Hit the ignition with it. Hard."

"What? No zappin' wires together?"

"Takes two to do it that way. Need someone in the engine compartment. Just knock the key entry part off so you can get at the rotation switch."

The taller man wrestled himself back up and out, grabbed the rock again, and after several tries, managed to knock the ignition off the steering column. A few more increasingly slurry and mumbled instructions from Nick and he was holding the end of the makeshift screwdriver, the other end embedded within the mechanics of the ignition.

"What next?" he yelled, his heart pounding as it took a second shout to get a reply, albeit the fuzziest one yet.

"Turn -t ov-r. Sh---d start."

With a silent prayer and promises to do everything and anything to get this to work, including being nice to Conrad Ecklie, cleaning out his Grams' gutters (she'd been asking him for a month now), talking to Suzanne and apologizing for not returning her calls and giving her the explanation she deserved, and yeah, if that's what it took, he'd swear on all he held holy that he would never _ever_ place another bet ever again, he turned the screwdriver in its slot.

The engine roared to life bringing with it the comforting normality of the a/c shooting out warm air, the warning beep that the seatbelt wasn't fastened and the door was ajar, and the CD player kicking back on.

He pulled himself up into the seat and hopped out to find Nick slumped against the truck, his body starting to tip to one side.

"C'mon, bro, need you around just a little longer." He shook his friend's shoulder more earnestly. There was no way he was gonna lift Nick's bulk up from the ground without hurting him further, and he felt himself growing angry that they had made it all this way and they were so _freaking _close and if Nick would just open up his goddamned eyes and stay awake and mobile for just a few more minutes and his shaking started getting rougher, his voice rising in what he thought at first was rage but he soon realized was panic because all of his efforts were being ignored and he just needed Nick to stay with him just a little longer and --

Brown eyes opened to look blearily and with not a small amount of annoyance in them.

Warrick sighed explosively, wiping his hands down his face, smearing sweat and grease in stripes down his cheeks. He hooked his hands under Nick's armpits and bit back all but a small grunt at the pain from the cactus spines and pulled the shorter man's body against his, the skin of Nick's chest eerily and ominously dry against Warrick's sweat covered flesh.

"C'mon, bro, up one more time, I swear it."

No answer but he felt Nick's hands tighten on his shoulders and the thrust of his good leg on the ground and they rose in tandem, clinging to each other in their exhaustion like two heavyweight boxers in the twelfth round.

The jump up to the higher bench seat in back took the last of Nick's energy and by the time Warrick had his splinted up leg stretched out on the seat and a seatbelt hooked through his belt just to keep the man from rolling off, Nick was out for the count.

Out for Warrick revving up the truck, throwing it into drive and leaving the hated mountain behind in a cloud of yellow dust. Out for the engine whining as Warrick pushed the heavy vehicle to speeds that almost put the needle off the odometer and had the tachometer fully into the red. Out for the sheriff deputy's car pulling out from behind the billboard advertising _REAL Indian Handicrafts: pottery, rugs, and our jewelry is made with Gen-u-ine Turquoise _as Warrick blew past him at a hundred-and-who-knows miles per hour.

Out for the huge hulking mirrored sunglasses-wearing cop to approach the truck with his hand hovering twitchily over his sidearm. For Warrick fumbling in the console for his wallet, simultaneously hooking a thumb at the back seat and flipping open to his CSI badge. Through the wail of the cop's siren and the sound of gravel spewing out from under rapidly accelerating tires.

Out through being lifted from the back seat onto a gurney and riding through a set of swinging metal doors into the ER of the local medical center.

* * *

An hour or so later found Warrick leaning wearily against the edge of a gurney wearing a ridiculous looking hospital gown. He'd been poked and prodded and the recipient of not one but two injections in a place that was already hurting, thank you very much, the first antibiotics for the myriad open lacerations and abrasions he received, the second steroids to combat the inflammation from the cactus spines. His arms were slathered in hydrocortisone cream and the advice they gave was just as Nick had said: paraffin after the swelling went down. He'd also been x-rayed and told that there was no crack in his cheekbone but he did have a small hairline fracture in his tailbone, here's an inflatable seat donut and some Darvocet. 

What he hadn't been given was any update on his partner's status, and he was weighing his options, whether to shuffle across the hall in the gown, one hand firmly holding things in place behind him, or to poke his head out the door in the hopes someone would walk by he could flag down.

He was standing at the door, one hand on the knob, the other fumbling for a fist full of material when the door opened out into the hall, the doorway framing a small bullet-headed black man in his fifties. He was almost a full foot shorter than Warrick and the CSI smiled as he looked down at the man's shiny dome. _He probably polishes it with a cloth every morning to get that high gloss on it. _He wore no white lab coat, but his buttoned up white oxford bore a small gold nametag that read Walter Moses, MD next to a necktie of blue with small yellow chevrons.

A small brown hand extended out for a brief shake as the doctor introduced himself as the man treating his partner, then swept out with the suggestion that Warrick take a seat in a nearby chair. He replied with a sickly smile, "No thanks. I'll stand if you don't mind."

"Of course. So, it took some doing but we got Mr. Stokes stabilized. Once we got some fluids running through him he perked right back up. We'll have him taken up to surgery in a bit to repair the break."

"Will he …will he get full use of the leg back, Doc?"

"I'm not an orthopod, but the break looks clean. He'll do some time in a halo frame, and once the wound heals we'll plaster him up and send him home. He'll need PT but other than knowing when bad weather's coming, he should get normal usage back."

"How's he doin' now? Can I see him?"

The doctor chuckled to himself shaking his head with amusement Warrick didn't understand.

"Sure… I'll warn you, he's on a high dosage of morphine right now and he seems to be especially sensitive to its effects."

Warrick's brow knitted; the words made him concerned, but the doc's expression was still almost mirthful, the smile making his flesh wrinkle in rolls right up through his forehead up to the top of his pate.

The physician placed a hand on the taller man's shoulder and led him out, walking with him as they made their way down the hall to stop in front of a closed door.

"Mr. Stokes asked me if I was Shaft, Mr. Brown. Now, I'm afraid I have nothing on Richard Roundtree, and my hair hasn't seen an afro since the seventies."

Warrick rolled his eyes, mortified for his partner. "It's…it's my fault. I was singing Shaft earlier - told him it was a good bonesetting song…" and he trailed off, shaking his head at how weird it sounded even though it had made perfect sense at the time.

The doc's eyebrow corduroyed the flesh on his head once again as it lifted in surprise, doubt, concern, and probably consideration that _maybe we shoulda x-rayed your head while we had you in there._

Before Warrick could utter another word to attempt to explain, from the other side of the door rose a voice. A distinctly drunken sounding and definitely White with a capital W voice- attempting to produce the rich and rumbly baritone of the inimitable Isaac Hayes- rang out, every few notes or so actually hitting the right key.

"_Who's the black private dick that's a sex machine to all the chicks_?"

Warrick was already cringing when he heard the same voice _answering back_, in a cracked and painful sounding falsetto, "_Shaft!"_

He was willing the ground to open up and swallow him whole when he heard a voice from the man next to him, the doctor nodding his head to an unheard beat, muttering "_Ya damn right."_

* * *

Thanks must be given to my FanFic Medical Consultant (patent pending) Amy for her, once again and as always, invaluable aid in keeping me medically on the ball. If it rang medically true for you, it's cuz of her. _Glochidia dermatitis _is a very real medical condition, by the by. Gawd, I love the internet. 

This was all for my good bud, Kristen. Hope you liked it, sweetie. And for those of you along for the ride, hope you enjoyed it for what it was: a little fun, a little adventure, some brotherly bantering and a ladle of whump. Kristen and I are hard at work on our next epic effort. Promises not so much on the fun side for our favorite Texan.

As far as credit for the song lyrics go, each to their own authors, Google 'em if you care to- this is for kicks 'n' giggles, not Benjamins. But the Scout song is a real one- props to the MacScouter, an online scouting reference. And of course, Nick and Warrick want you to know that hot wiring cars is a Bad Thing and should only be done under… _extenuating circumstances_.


End file.
